Promises Kept
by foodaddict
Summary: A king learns that keeping his word is its own reward when he turns his back on love and marries a Frey girl.
1. Chapter 1

**Promises Kept**

_Keeping one's word is its own reward._

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Robb Stark or any of the other characters created by George R. R. Martin. Neither do I have any claim over his work in _A Song of Ice and Fire_. I do not earn any profit from this.

**Author's Note:** Hello guys! First of all, read no further if you've only watched the series and don't want spoilers. This fic actually doesn't have that many spoilers (in fact it's quite AU), but it reveals a crucial detail/event so be forewarned.

Just to be clear, this is _not_ a Jeyne Westerling bashing fic. It's just my take on what might have happened if Robb had married a Frey girl despite the incident at the Crag. The Frey girl in this fic is an OC. I don't give her a name, so if you want to imagine she's Roslin, that's fine—though her personality is quite different from Roslin's. Also, I ignored much of the Frey family tree in this fic, okay? Just go with it, haha.

The inspiration for this was a Rolling Stones' song. I'd like to think that everyone's heard the following lines at some point: "You can't always get what you want/But if you try, you get what you need." So that's basically the whole point of this fic.

Feedback is very much appreciated!

* * *

It was a perfect day for a betrothal. For months people had spoken of the coming winter, yet that day made it seem as though summer had just arrived. If I had said this aloud, my sisters might have said that I felt that way because I was giddy. I was _not._ The weather seemed to declare that I ought to be, though. The sky was vibrant and clear, the winds warm, the sun bright. I sat by the large window of the room I shared with three of my sisters. The window faced south, and from it I could observe the mass of men and structures just outside the walls of our father's keep—the army of the King in the North.

My betrothed.

I pushed down the roiling mass of feelings that threatened to break my calm façade. It had held all through the day, this mask of serenity, from the moment we had been assembled before King Robb until he had taken my hand and declared me his choice. It was one of the few things I prided myself on: being in control of myself. In a chaotic keep, in uncertain times, there was so little a person—moreover a woman—could have power over. I'd resolved long ago that if I could be little else, I would at least be mistress over my own self.

Of course, I'd be mistress of the North before long, and again I had to take a breath to steady myself at the implications of that title.

Feminine murmurs from the hallway prevented me from brooding. I turned as four of my sisters entered the room. My gratitude at their interruption was only slightly soured by the sight of Kyra, perhaps the only one of my siblings with whom I had less than a loving relationship. She was looking extremely pleased—something that usually boded ill for me. Alys, Fara, and Margaret were the closest to me of my siblings since they were the ones who shared a room with me. They were watching Kyra with expressions that ranged from outright hostility to distinct discomfort.

"We thought we'd bring you your meal," Kyra said sweetly, her wide blue eyes filled with guile, "since you skipped luncheon."

"And since Kyra didn't bring anything," Margaret said acidly, hefting a tray filled with dishes, "she _naturally_ had to come along."

Kyra ignored her. She walked over to me, glancing out the window. "I didn't realize you were such a romantic, coming up here to moon over him."

"Yes, of course that's the reason she's up here," Fara cut in, setting a pitcher and goblet down on the table next to the tray. "Her eyes are so sharp that she can see King Robb from all the way over here."

Behind us Margaret was gesturing at me, her hands moving in a shoving motion as she tilted her head meaningfully towards our unwelcome sister. My lips barely twitched with laughter but Kyra caught it. She narrowed her eyes at me, dropping all pretense of sweetness.

"I suppose you think you're special now just because the King chose you," she said in a venomous voice that was at odds with her fragile prettiness. "You must think you're very lucky."

I had been waiting for this confrontation all day. It was part of the reason I'd retreated to my room after the King and his company had left. The murderous look on Kyra's face the moment the King had reached for my hand had warned me that a scene was coming. I didn't want it to play out anywhere else.

"I am very lucky," I said calmly. "The King is a great man."

"Indeed. Don't you wonder why he chose you?"

"In other words, Kyra wants you to tell her why he didn't choose _her,"_ Margaret snapped. She glared at Kyra. "Not everyone thinks you're the best of us, Twit. Now go away."

Kyra's eyes blazed and I sighed inwardly.

When we were children we had all believed that Kyra had been Father's favorite. Even as a child she had taken after her mother's beauty, and she possessed the same capricious precociousness that seemed to enchant even our blustery old sire.

When she and I were both fourteen years old things had changed. Perhaps they had already begun to change long before that crucial incident, but we all failed to notice until that one evening. Our septa had been delivering a report to my father about our progress in our lessons. We had been learning about keeping legers. I was doing well; Kyra was not. It wasn't a matter of intelligence or skill, really, but a matter of attitude. What was of value to me was meaningless to Kyra, and she told our father this when he turned to her for an explanation.

"I don't need to learn all that," she had said breezily, smiling at Father. "Only undesirable women have to bother themselves with managing a household. I'll simply marry well so that servants can do all that for me."

None of us had expected Father's reply. He had always laughed at Kyra's outrageousness. It was a constant source of amusement for him and his delight had encouraged our sister to go on as she did. But that night he'd turned on her with a black scowl.

"And what man would want you, you empty-headed twit?" he'd demanded. "By the Seven, if I'd known that your mother would have given me such a stupid child I'd have kept my cock in my pants!"

I still remember Kyra's face going very white, her blue eyes going round with shock. I remember my brothers' faces as they, too, observed her. Some had been sympathetic, some indifferent. But Olyvar had been amused. I saw the twinkle of mirth in his eyes a moment before he snorted with laughter. It seemed then that he was not alone in his reaction as the sound of muffled laughter and ill-concealed titters had echoed about the dining hall. Since then many of our siblings referred to Kyra as the Twit whenever there was a quarrel, and in Kyra's mind somehow this had become my fault.

"Margaret," I said wearily, "you're not helping, dear."

Kyra had recomposed herself. She gave me a cruel smirk. "I only came to warn you. Don't start building castles in the air just because King Robb chose you. You're just a necessity, not the woman he really wants."

"Which would be you, I suppose?" Fara said with a scornful laugh.

Kyra laughed as well, matching our sister's contempt. "No, actually. There's another girl named Jeyne Westerling. Her family's seat is the Crag. King Robb was forced to take it two years ago because they were allied with the Lannisters. Do you remember that?"

I'd heard of the event. No one said anything and Kyra's smile widened at the fact she'd succeeded in getting our attention.

"Well apparently King Robb was injured by an arrow and Jeyne Westerling tended to him. After that they became rather close. Not long after Winterfell burned they found the king and the lady in each other's arms—in a most unchaste way, if you take my meaning. They say the king wanted to marry her in order to preserve her honor, but his mother prevailed upon him to keep his word to Father."

"Wise of him," Fara murmured. "Father would never have forgiven the insult if the king had broken his word."

"That's not the point. King Robb may have decided to keep his word to Father, but he and the Westerling girl are still lovers. Where do you think he was before he came here to select a bride?"

"He was telling this Jeyne goodbye."

Alys's voice was soft, but firm. She was my only full-blooded sister and was younger than me by only ten months. She'd kept silent the entire time, understanding as well as I did that the fastest way to get rid of Kyra was to let her say her piece.

"You should pay more attention when people tell you things, even gossip," Alys told Kyra coolly. "It's why people always say you're empty-headed. He said goodbye to Jeyne Westerling because he knew that upon getting here he'd be selecting a bride."

Kyra flushed, but she persisted in her course. "Again, not the point." She turned towards me. "How do you think King Robb feels about you? What do you think he feels when he looks at you and remembers that you're not the woman he wanted?"

I bit back a sigh. "I suppose he comforts himself with the knowledge that he has Father's eternal support."

Kyra laughed almost hysterically. I almost pitied her. She had always been so sure that the king would choose her. _I'd_ been certain he'd choose her. She was often considered the loveliest of us, though I'd often felt that Alys could give her a run for her money. Still, I could understand the disappointment and frustration. Yet if she'd meant to hurt me by telling me about King Robb's great love, she was far off her mark. She seemed to realize this as the minutes ticked by and I did not say anything further.

"If you've finished, sister," Alys said to Kyra at length, "you should leave."

Kyra picked up her skirts and left, her pretty nose in the air. I watched her go, musing that perhaps it was best that the king had chosen me. Kyra would never have borne King Robb's devotion to another woman. It was perhaps why she'd chosen to tell me about it—she'd assumed I'd feel as she would have felt.

The truth was that King Robb was entitled to love whomever he wanted. One couldn't control one's emotions. _I_ still felt, although I knew sometimes people doubted it. What was important was what a person did, and that was an arena where feelings could play a very small part.

If the King in the North could manage to bind himself to a woman other than the one he loved, I could live with being married to someone who loved another. Though we had grown together and had once been the closest of siblings Kyra still did not understand me. It mattered little to me whom Robb Stark loved. I had my own reasons for wanting the marriage, and none of them had to do with love. As queen I would have power, and power was important for what I wanted to do. The fighting was finally coming to an end and soon the focus would turn to fashioning the Northern Kingdom to the North's liking. I intended to be a part of that.

It was almost like being a child again, when I believed that Father had loved Kyra more than me. I had learned very quickly that there was no point in feeling sorry for myself, or craving my father's love when he had already given all of it to Kyra. I learned to value what I did have: opportunities and abilities that were of help to people, which I put to good use.

In fact, the only insult Kyra had ever come up with that actually managed to wound me was in relation to my desire to help. There had been a fire once that had taken nearly a fourth of the castle. Dozens had been injured and much had been lost, as the fire had started in the supply rooms. I had barely slept in the months that followed as we tried to recuperate. If I wasn't needed to tend to the injured I was busy with the merchants or the artisans. Father had noticed that I'd lost weight and had gruffly reminded me that I needed to eat if I wanted to keep a woman's figure. I had felt a momentary glow of affection at his concern, roughly-worded though it was, until I'd overheard Kyra's muttered remark.

"Of course, she loves it when some new catastrophe happens because it's the only time she can act important."

The accusation still stung, though years had passed. My brothers and sisters had told me to pay Kyra's words no mind, but the self-doubt had lingered.

One of my sisters cleared her throat.

"Will you eat?" Alys asked gently.

I smiled. "Of course. Forgive me, I hope it wasn't too much trouble for you to bring this up to me."

"The only trouble was having that smug bitch tail us around," Margaret growled. In one of her quicksilver changes of mood she burst out laughing. "Oh, the look on her face when Robb Stark stopped in front of you!"

Fara's snickers joined hers. "I swear, I was waiting for her to scream, 'Whaaaat?' "

"Did you know that she actually rehearsed her reaction to his proposal?" Margaret sneered.

_That _caught my interest. "She _what?"_

"Zia told me she even considered fainting!"

Alys and Fara could not contain their mirth but I was horrified. "By the Seven, Father would have flogged her for acting so disgracefully! What a ridiculous way to react to a proposal!"

"Oh yes, your way was much better, I'm sure," Margaret teased.

" 'Will you marry me, Lady Frey?' " Fara said in a low, growly voice that I gathered was supposed to be King Robb.

Margaret assumed a blank, far-off expression and she spoke in a monotone. " 'Certainly, Your Grace.' "

I felt myself flush and I turned to Alys. "I didn't say it like _that_, did I?"

Alys shrugged. "You did sound rather…uninspired."

"Well, how was I supposed to sound?" I demanded a little defensively. "It's a political marriage, for goodness sake."

"Didn't you feel even a _little_ bit flattered when he chose you?" Margaret wheedled.

"Yes, how did you feel when you saw him coming towards you?" Fara said with a grin.

I poured myself some water, hoping they wouldn't press for a reply. This was the other reason I'd retired to my room so quickly. I wanted to avoid answering questions like these. My mind skipped back to earlier in the day, when I'd been standing with my sisters in the great hall.

Something about the arrangement had struck me as terribly wrong. We were lined up like livestock for inspection in the order that Father had deemed us most desirable. I had been in the fourth line from the front, eager for the choice to be done so that I could get back to my duties. The king had stood beside Father, speaking with him in low, urgent tones. His mother, Lady Catelyn Stark, had done most of the inspection, walking to and fro and looking us over. Predictably her eyes had lingered on Kyra. All of us, save Kyra, were small, dark-haired women whose features ranged from mousy to coarse. Kyra's perfectly oval face had found the happy medium, the bones of her face fine while her eyes were large and bright, her mouth full and pillowy-soft. She was also light-haired, her hair curling fetchingly in little ringlets that our own pin-straight hair could never aspire to.

I wasn't repulsive, thank the Seven, but I knew that I would never appeal to most people the way Kyra did. My nose was too pointy and I didn't have cheekbones to speak of. My eyes were often said to be too large for my face, an unremarkable brown next to Kyra's bright blue. My mouth was a small thing, the upper lip barely there. My face was small and heart-shaped, and the most generous thing anyone had ever said of it was that I faintly resembled a kitten.

I had begun to be bored when the conversation between the king and our father finally came to an end. Our father had looked distinctly unhappy, if resigned. He'd scanned our faces before his eyes had settled on mine and I'd felt a kick of unease in my gut. He'd murmured something to the king and when my gaze had swung to him I found myself staring into the eyes of the Young Wolf.

And the unease had turned into dread.

His gaze had never left mine as he walked towards me. The intensity of the stare and the grim sense of purpose I read in his eyes had nearly sent me into a panic. But by some grace of the gods I'd stood completely still, my face composed. When he'd come to stop in front of me I'd been forced to tilt my head back to hold his stare—we nearly had a foot of difference in height. A gloved hand took my left one and lifted it so that he could brush his lips over it.

"Will you marry me, Lady Frey?" he'd asked gravely.

The words were heavy on my tongue, but I'd pushed them out with as much dignity as I could muster. "Certainly, Your Grace."

I drank deeply of the water before I turned back to my sisters' expectant faces.

"I can't remember how I felt," I answered, hoping they would believe me. "To be honest, it felt rather unreal."

"Not even a _flutter_ of delight? Even when he kissed your hand?" Margaret demanded.

I shook my head helplessly. "Not if you count momentary terror as a flutter."

Fara snorted with disgust. "You _are_ made of stone. There's not a man anywhere as handsome as the king for miles and the only thing you can feel for him is terror or indifference."

I grinned, far too used to this kind of ribbing to take offense. They were right, of course. King Robb was an impressive man, all angles and hard planes. He was young yet, only a year older than my eighteen, but he carried the mantle of authority on his broad shoulders like a king who'd lived far longer. His eyes were a sharp, clear hue that straddled gray and blue and looking into them I'd wondered if he'd ever been young. His mouth was generous but the tightness in his square jaw told me he wasn't one to smile. Undeniably handsome, but also grim, serious. I supposed one had to be if one was going to lead a rebellion and be king.

"Do you know what father said to him?" I asked after a moment. Thinking about the king had made me imagine myself as his queen and the vision did not feel right. Especially since imagining Kyra as his queen seemed to yield a much more appropriate image. I wondered what Jeyne Westerling looked like.

"Walda said the king asked a lot of questions about what each of us could do," said Alys. "She was at the very front and she said that the king was very interested in which of us was cleverest, or which of us knew best how to manage a keep. He said he needed a queen who was capable before anything else. Father didn't seem to want to talk about you, but eventually your name came up." Alys must have noticed that I was hurt, because she reached out to touch my arm and spoke gently. "He probably didn't want to lose you to the king. You do so much here, sister. Walda said the King had to ask, 'Is there _anyone_ else?' at least five times before Father grudgingly pointed you out. If Father weren't trying to keep you he'd have mentioned you at the very start."

The hurt eased, but it was replaced by a dull ache that I failed to give a name to. I had always taken my place in the keep for granted. I had imagined all of my sisters getting married and leaving to join their husbands, but I had never considered the possibility that I might do it. Who would have thought that a man would choose a wife based on sense, not beauty or feeling? Then again, Robb Stark was not just any man—he was a king, and as king he was bound by duty more than any person of lesser rank.

"Oh no, she's started brooding," came Margaret's amused voice, and I realized that I'd been staring at the morsel on my fork with great interest but hadn't actually eaten it.

I grinned, telling myself firmly that there would be time to be miserable later, when I was alone. For now I would savor what time I had left with those I loved. Before long the grin felt natural, and I forgot for a little while that the world I knew would never be the same again.

* * *

**Author's Note #2:** You know, this was supposed to be a one-shot. But after I'd finished (at 26 pages!) I felt like it wasn't fleshed out enough and decided to substantiate some parts. The friend who read it suggested I make it into four parts, so that's what I'm doing. I hope you enjoyed this so far, and please do leave feedback! I always reply to comments. If you aren't logged in my replies will be in the next chapter.

_**Next Chapter:** Interludes between the king and his betrothed, the wedding, and the wedding night._


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Robb Stark or any of the other characters created by George R. R. Martin. Neither do I have any claim over his work in _A Song of Ice and Fire_. I do not earn any profit from this.

**Author's Note:** Hello guys! First of all, thank you very much for all of your support and kind words! I'm really glad that this story has gotten such a good reception. To all those who marked this story as their favorite, I hope that this next chapter won't change your mind, haha. For those who generously left me a review, I've replied to you in a private message that I hope you got. Those who weren't logged in, please see the end of this chapter.

In this chapter I took quite a bit of liberty with the wedding ceremony, especially the vows. Bear in mind, this story is AU so I also took some liberties with the events in the books. I hope it doesn't ruin this story for you.

Finally, this chapter ends with the wedding night, and _there is sex in it_, so if you don't like that sort of thing it isn't necessary to read it in this chapter. But there will be more of it in the next two chapters, so be forewarned.

Enjoy!

* * *

For the first time in my entire life, my father was in my bedroom. My sisters seemed to be as surprised and uncomfortable with the sight and we all rose quickly. It was not yet an hour past sunrise but we were accustomed to waking early and had thankfully all dressed.

"Sleep well?" Father demanded gruffly, his eyes on me.

I nodded, hoping he wouldn't notice that the gesture was a lie. I'd tossed and turned all night, falling asleep only when Alys had gotten into bed beside me and rubbed my back soothingly. Tears had pricked my eyes then but I hadn't let them fall. For some bizarre reason they threatened to fall now at the sight of our dour old sire.

"Why don't you all go down to breakfast?" he said after a pause, glancing briefly at my sisters.

My sisters hurried out, Alys shutting the door quietly behind her. Silence filled the room for a full minute and I held my father's gaze steadily. I had never seen my father smile at me. In my mind he was always stern and disapproving. But there was a curious expression on his face now as he looked at me and I felt a powerful urge to throw my arms around him and comfort him.

"Never thought he'd choose you," he said on a huff. "I forgot I was dealing with a Stark. Should've known he'd never be content with just a pretty face. I should have just promised him the Twit instead of letting him choose."

My lips quirked despite myself. My father didn't seem to notice.

"Now you'll be riding up north and I'll be stuck with the useless offspring," he grumbled, shaking his head at his apparent misfortune.

I wanted to point out that not all of my siblings were like Kyra but I held my tongue. My father and I had carried on conversations before, but always about work that had to be done about the keep. He had never spoken to me about his thoughts or feelings and I had a sneaking suspicion that today I would experience another first. Again, I felt the urge to comfort him. This time it was accompanied by that same unfamiliar ache in my chest that I'd felt the day before.

"You're not frightened of being queen, are you?" my father asked me suddenly, his gaze sharpening.

"No, Father," I answered, the words leaving my mouth before I realized they were true—in a fashion. "Frightened" was too simple a word for how I felt about being queen.

He nodded sharply. "Good. I didn't think you would be. It's why I named you. I tried to convince the Young Wolf to take the others, but he wouldn't have it. Bloody Stark."

He let out another huff and stared at me, his eyes bright. He took a step forward then stopped. I had a sense that he was either going to say something very important or leave. Something inside me snapped when I saw him turn as though to go.

My feet moved of their own accord and before I could reconsider it I was hugging my father fiercely. The tears finally spilled as I buried my face against his chest. He patted me awkwardly on the head, clearly uncomfortable with the contact, but he didn't push me away. I let myself cry even though I barely understood the reason for the tears. When they finally ran out my father stepped back to look at me. He dabbed at my face with his sleeve—he never did carry a kerchief.

"You'll do me proud," he said with the barest of smiles. It was an image I would carry with me always, as I would the feeling of finally knowing my father's approval. I would have married Robb Stark's dire wolf if my father would smile at me again.

"I will, Father," I promised fervently.

I did not know how hard-pressed I would be to keep that promise when King Robb came to visit me that afternoon.

* * *

I finished speaking with several of my brothers and sisters about how the keep was to be run once I left. It gave me a measure of pride to realize just how much I got done. The anxiety of planning how things would go on, however, had affected all of us, and I now had to deal with a vicious pounding at my temples. My siblings began to file out of the room, leaving me with only my three closest sisters. It had been their idea to call the meeting.

"Get some air," Alys advised. "You're looking peaked, sister."

"No, I'll help you put these away," I said, reaching for some of the ledgers that were heaped onto the table.

"No, you won't," Fara said firmly, taking the ledgers before I could. "Take a walk, sister. We can manage."

"After all, we'll have to start managing without you sometime, won't we?" Margaret pointed out cheerfully.

I smiled at them even as that hideous pain in my chest started again. It was getting ridiculous. I excused myself hurriedly in case the urge to fling myself at them and cry came up, as well. After my father had left my room that morning I'd taken some time to compose myself. The tenderness I felt for him remained, as did the profound relief of finally knowing for certain that I was of value to him, but as calm had set in I had also chagrined by my loss of control.

The corridors were blessedly empty and I made my way briskly to the ramparts. I often took my walks there rather than in the gardens. With the castle surrounded by friendly forces most of the guards were off duty and were helping with the preparations. There would be no one to bother me if I walked along the ramparts, and I needed more time alone. I was unraveling around the people I loved and I didn't like it. I'd been chosen because I was steady and I could hold myself together. It would be embarrassing for my father if people saw me fall apart.

A gust of cold air greeted me as I stepped outside. As I had expected, the usual sentries were gone from their posts. I took a deep, fortifying breath and began to walk, my eyes on the surrounding area although I don't remember actually seeing anything—my thoughts were turned far inward. I preferred it here because the air was fresher along the ramparts and the gardens were Kyra's favorite haunt. She loved flowers and had a remarkable talent for making them grow. As a result the gardens were so beautiful that they were almost at odds with the rest of the keep. But the contrast was lovely to most who saw it, and I had always mused—never aloud, of course—that it said something of the bond that Kyra and I shared, despite our enmity. We each had what the other lacked and so our work never overlapped but rather complemented each other. Kyra had not been present at our meeting because she never bothered with work around the keep—not since that night that Father had shamed her. Instead she devoted her days to the gardens, and we had been content to keep her there. I wondered now if that had been wise. Father had many children, it was true, but so few who were willing to work. Those who were not afraid or disdainful of duty were overburdened as things were. Kyra had shown a remarkable devotion to caring for the gardens, and I wondered if my departure would stir her interest in helping around the keep. I wanted to speak to her about it, but I knew that it was a task best left to my other sisters. Kyra had hated me enough without Robb Stark's proposal. In any case, my head was about ready to explode and I was in no state to speak to anyone. The wind teased at my hair, disheveling the black mass, but I couldn't be bothered to pin or plait it back into place.

I don't know how long I was walking when the curious feeling of being watched crept over me. It was a prickling sensation that seemed to skim over the back of my neck and arms, down the length of my spine. I turned slowly and felt my stomach do a flop when I saw the King in the North standing behind me, not ten meters away.

The first thing that registered to my stunned senses was the fact that he was alone.

_We_ were alone.

He did not move towards me—he simply stood there, watching me gravely. I wondered if he would take offense if I turned my back on him and continued my walk. I didn't want to talk to anyone, least of all him.

But breeding won out and I grudgingly picked up my skirts and walked towards him, taking in other details I had missed at first glance. For one, he was still dressed in full armor even though he was in friendly territory. I wondered if this was because the war had made him paranoid or if it was a custom of the Starks. I had never seen my father in armor. Except for Olyvar and several others, I had never seen any of my brothers in armor, either. And even those who had cause to wear it never wore it about the keep. It seemed like the Starks were an inordinately battle-ready lot. They were always involved in fighting, for some reason, though it seemed like they were the ones who least enjoyed it.

"Good afternoon, Your Grace," I greeted as I reached him, dipping into a formal bow.

"Good afternoon, my lady," he answered, reaching for my hand perfunctorily as I stood. "Your sisters informed me that you were talking a stroll. One of them was certain you would be here. Might I join you?"

"Of course, Your Grace," I said with a smile, even as I contemplated wringing the snitch's neck.

We began to walk at a leisurely pace. My mind whirred frantically for something to say. It was strange—I had never had to reach for words before. But people rarely made me as nervous as Robb Stark did.

"How are you today, Your Grace?" I asked after waiting for several minutes for him to start. After I said the words it occurred to me that perhaps he didn't want to talk either. Then it occurred to me that I was behaving like an idiot, second-guessing myself at every turn. If the king did not want to speak to anyone, he'd have sought solitude rather than seek me out.

I was so thoroughly occupied with being stern with myself that I barely caught his reply.

"...I am certain you understand," he was saying seriously.

I nodded solemnly, scrambling to figure out what he meant.

"I am afraid it will not be much different once we are wed, if I may be frank, my lady," he continued. "Although our truce with Tyrion Lannister appears as though it may hold, there is also the matter of Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons, which they say are almost fully grown. If she decides to return to Westeros to claim the Iron Throne it may be that she will lay claim to the North, as well. We will have to be prepared for that. I may be away more than most husbands ought to be."

I smiled at him, understanding unfurling in my mind. He must have been talking about the fact that he was not residing in the keep. It had been a subject of much speculation among the residents of the Twins when the King in the North had elected to remain outside, camped with his men, rather than rely on my father's hospitality. I had been too overwhelmed by the proposal to be bothered and my father did not seem to be insulted. Perhaps whatever reasons Robb Stark had given him—surely the same ones he had been giving me when I had not been paying attention—were valid ones.

"Most husbands are not kings," I pointed out wryly.

He did not return my smile. Instead he came to a stop and placed his hands over the stone, leaning out and taking in the scenery. Was it chance that he was facing south? I wondered if he was thinking of Daenerys Targaryen or Jeyne Westerling. I reminded myself that I was reading too deeply into things once again. He was likely thinking of the thousands of his soldiers who were assembled below.

I attempted to start another conversation when the seconds slipped past and I realized that he was not about to say more.

"Will your armies remain assembled until you have dealt with the Dragon Queen?" I asked, eyeing the iron swarm. The last time that they had camped near the Twins they had been on the northern side, twenty-thousand strong. Now they were on the southern end, twice that number. The king was indeed a marvel.

"No," he answered, straightening and turning to me. "They've been away from home for nigh on three years. They remain assembled only for the wedding. Many of them see it as a celebration of a successful campaign for Northern freedom."

_And you?_ I wanted to ask. _What do you see it as?_

But there was no need—I saw the answer clearly in his eyes. It was the same answer I would have given if he had asked me. The wedding was indeed a celebration…of more duty, more responsibility. There would never be an end of such things for people like me and Robb Stark.

"So where shall we go after the wedding?" I asked, feeling an unaccountable kinship with him at that moment. We were both slaves to our duties.

The king quashed that warm feeling decisively.

"I—" there was the barest emphasis on the word—"ride south after the wedding," my betrothed said shortly. He did not deign to explain why. "I will leave an escort for you. You will go to Winterfell as soon as you are ready."

It took me a moment to recover from both the pronouncement and the tone in which it was conveyed. "I did not realize that Winterfell was completely restored, Your Grace."

"The keep is functional, but there is much yet to be done. It is largely a barracks for soldiers at this point since only men accustomed to warfare have had charge of it since it was retaken from Roose Bolton."

_And you wish me to change that,_ I thought, deciding that I ought to be flattered by the fact that he believed me capable. No wonder he had pestered father for someone who might be up to the task. It was daunting, but there was a strange comfort in being assigned such an undertaking. I had thought that being queen would mean a radical shift in lifestyle. If all the king would expect of me was to rebuild and run a keep, he was asking too little. I'd already helped do so before, after all.

I did not realize that I had been silent so long that the king had given meaning to it.

"If you are uncomfortable with the prospect of managing Winterfell on your own," said the king, "do not fret. My mother will accompany you. Also, my brother, Jon Snow, has promised to check on you whenever he has a chance. He is a brother of the Night's Watch but he always finds time."

I stiffened at his words. They were delivered courteously and seemingly in the spirit of concern, but there was the slightest hint of impatience and condescension in them.

"I look forward to spending time with your family, Your Grace," I said coolly, "but I assure you, there will be no need for their assistance. Perhaps you may yet need your mother when you ride south and as to your brother, surely men of the Night's Watch have better things to do."

His eyes narrowed but he did not reply. Instead he reached for my hand and gingerly tucked it into his arm. I sent a silent apology over to Lady Stark and the king's bastard brother—I had not wanted to demean their offers to be of help to me. The offers had likely been given out of kindness. It was not their fault that the king managed to give reassurance so rudely. I was not sorry for the insult I'd slipped him about constantly needing his mother. I pushed away the guilt by reminding myself that it was true. Indeed, the very alliance with my father and the passage of the king's army south had been handled by Lady Stark.

I was proud of the fact that my expression was smooth even though inwardly I contemplated how satisfying it would be to be a man so I could knock Robb Stark flat. No one—not even Kyra—had ever doubted my capabilities before. They'd questioned my motives or scorned me for doing my duties to the letter, but no one had ever so much as _insinuated_ that I couldn't do them. It was all I could do to keep my fingers from digging into his arm like talons.

We made one more round of the ramparts in silence. He did not try to start another conversation and I was still too offended to try again a third time. I excused myself, pleading exhaustion from my tasks that day, and the king escorted me to my room. I thanked him and managed a smile, closing the door politely before I lay down, consumed with doubts about our match.

It was only half an hour later, when my sisters came to find me, that I realized that my head had stopped aching.

* * *

The wedding was coming together very quickly—too quickly. It had been three days and I was already fitting my gown for final adjustments. I would be wearing it to the wedding the day after next. The fair weather had persisted and people had begun saying that it was a good omen. Inwardly, I'd scoffed. As warm as things were outside, the atmosphere between me and the king remained glacial. At least they were on his end, I mused with a frown. In the two days since the walk we'd taken he'd come to see me every day, but always with an air of frigid displeasure. Oh, he hid it well—he was unfailingly polite and courteous, but as someone who was every bit as good at holding on to her reserve I was highly sensitive to people's feelings, particularly when they tried to hide them. I was doing my best not to be resentful—I had decided the day of the walk _not_ to be offended by the king's words or manner. The man had too much on his mind to make an effort to be charming. But I could not deny as the days passed that annoyance was certainly creeping in. We were both being forced into this marriage but there was no reason for him to turn his ugly feelings towards me. _I_ was coping, wasn't I?

Then again, I wasn't the one in love with someone who was _not_ my betrothed. It was something I'd had to remind myself of since the proposal.

"Are you certain you don't need assistance, my lady?" came a voice from the other side of the screen.

"No, Winfred, thank you," I answered, smoothing my hands down over the front of my dress. It was cut very simply, with no ornamentation save the corded silk around the waist and the elbows from which the ivory silk flared out into bells. Winfred was a seamstress whose work was in demand in the lands both north and south of the Twins and she had assured me that the severe cut worked best with my figure. I only had one reservation. "Don't you think the bodice is too tight?"

I heard titters from across the room and rolled my eyes. Fara and Margaret had insisted on being around to watch. Only Alys was seeing to her chores. Winfred clucked her tongue, coming around the screen to look at me. Her brows rose and her round face filled with an expression of delight.

"Why, you are a delight to look at, my lady!" she announced, and the scuffle across the floor gave me advance notice of the inquisitive heads that popped around the edge of the screen.

"It's also cut too low," I persisted, staring down at my chest. I didn't like to be critical of anyone as pleasant as Winfred, but this _was_ my wedding, and I happened to be marrying a king. "What will the king think?"

"Er, 'thank the gods she has breasts!'?" Margaret offered with a grin. "Who knew you had _that_ much, though?"

I threw my hands over my chest, turning my back to my sisters even as I twisted my head around to give them a disapproving look. "You know, when you two leer like that you start to look like Father."

"Oh, listen to her!" Fara said dramatically. "She thinks she can criticize us just because the gods planted mountains on her chest!"

I flushed at their laughter and gave Winfred a pleading look. "Please, this is far too revealing."

"Your sisters are simply unused to seeing you so well-dressed, my lady," Winfred said soothingly, though she gave my sisters a warning glare. "I promise you, you look utterly _ravishing!_ Everyone will know how fortunate the king is to have you, especially the king."

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face. I would never get an honest opinion from anyone in the room. Fara and Margaret took too much delight in teasing me to answer seriously, and I could not trust Winfred because she could never be impartial when judging her own creation.

"I'm going to find Alys," I announced, straightening and ignoring my sister's giggles as I lifted my hands away from my chest. "Will you please excuse me for a moment, Winfred?"

"Of course, my lady," the seamstress said with a bow. "It will be an excellent chance for you to see how easy it is for you to move in the dress, as requested."

"It will also be an excellent chance for you to parade around and see how men will react to it," Margaret said with a wink.

I hurried out before I could hear Fara's follow-up. Winfred was right—the dress _was_ easy to move in.

It still made me feel exposed, however. Alys was in the sitting room, sewing with the other ladies. She was by far the most gifted of us with the needle. She would give me the fairest opinion. And even if she weren't qualified to give it, hers would be the opinion I would trust.

I had barely taken three steps from the door when a deep voice stopped me short.

"Lady Frey."

I froze. A part of me urged me wildly to run back into my room and hide. I stomped on that part until it quieted and forced myself to turn and face my visitor, keeping my face serene.

"Your Grace," I greeted, bowing.

He was standing almost right outside my door. I must have swept past him without noticing, too intent on escaping my sisters. A horrible thought came to my mind—had he heard us speaking?

His brows were lowered and his jaw was as set as ever—he looked thoroughly disturbed. Was an apology warranted? Or should I simply laugh the conversation off as the words of silly women? I was so torn between the two options that I said nothing even though his stare seemed to burn right through me.

Or at least right through my dress.

It took me a full second to realize that the king was scrutinizing me, and not in a way that any man—king or not—ought to look at a highborn lady. It was the kind of scrutiny that went past the social divisions that people imposed on one another. It was a primal sort of interest, and intellectually I knew it was perfectly natural. I had sized up the king, hadn't I? But unlike the king, who might be used to such attention, I could not recall being looked at in that way before, and it caused me to bristle.

Didn't he realize that he was ogling me? I lifted my chin and stared him down. The action seemed to hit him like a blow—I saw the barest of flinches and he cleared his throat roughly.

"Forgive me, I had thought you might be unoccupied at this time," he said quickly, and it seemed he was as eager to be gone as I was.

"Just a few more minor adjustments to the wedding dress, Your Grace," I answered, glad that I at least sounded more composed than he did. "What can I do for you?"

He didn't answer at once. He was staring at my dress again—at a very specific part. This time I couldn't stop the reproving frown. He blinked and coughed then drew his cloak back. He was holding a velvet pouch in his hand. He reached inside and drew out a necklace. "I came to give you this."

I came closer to him, staring at the ornament in his palm as he held it out to me. The chain was made of little gold knots so fine that it looked smooth unless one looked closely. It had been twined securely around one of the largest, darkest rubies I had ever seen. The jewel was in the shape of a tear and it very nearly spanned the king's palm in length. The way it had been set left the gem almost completely bare, but somehow it seemed like the best way to showcase its beauty.

"It's beautiful, Your Grace," I whispered, tearing my gaze away from the lavish trinket.

"An engagement present," he told me, and for the first time I saw those generous lips curve into a small smile. "I've been remiss, my lady. I should have presented you with one the day I asked for your hand."

"You honored me that day, Your Grace," I answered with my own tentative smile. I had been careful not to smile at him since we had taken that walk three days earlier. It made me feel like a fool, smiling at someone who never returned the expression. "There was really no need for you to bring me a present."

He shook his head. "Yes there was. But at least the lapse gave me an opportunity to select something that would suit you."

I looked down at the necklace again. I didn't know how something so magnificent could suit me.

"Do you like it?"

My eyes shot back to his. He had sounded almost unsure. "I like it very much, Your Grace." I felt inexplicably shy and I bit my lip—a childish habit I thought I had purged from myself many years earlier—before asking, "Shall I wear it now?"

His strong chin dipped into a nod and I reached for the necklace, but he surprised me by stepping forward and slipping it around my neck. I stiffened as I felt his fingers brush against my skin and I felt the fine hairs around my nape rise at the sensation. He seemed to have trouble fastening the clasp and I was unable to stop a flush from climbing up my cheeks as our nearness—and the awkwardness we were both feeling—sank in. I swallowed thickly, focusing on studying the intricate plate of his armor, and he stilled at the movement.

"Forgive me," he said gruffly. "I'm not usually this clumsy."

"Perhaps if I turned?" I offered, wanting to keep my burning face away from him.

"If you please, my lady," he murmured, and he drew his hands away.

I turned carefully because I wanted to whirl around and he fastened the necklace efficiently this time. Before he stepped back, however, I felt him brush his finger against the very base of my neck. I flushed even darker. He'd taken notice of one of my many moles. The little dots were everywhere on my body, as though not content with having ingratiated themselves conspicuously near my left eye and over my upper lip. My sisters had told me that they were charming and I had always been reassured, but now I felt terribly self-conscious. It irritated me sufficiently to fight for a measure of reserve.

"Thank you, Your Grace," I said, turning back to him, proud that my voice was steady. The necklace felt cool against my hot skin and I touched it tentatively, wondering how I looked like to him. The chain was only so long that the jewel was nestled almost perfectly in between the globes of my breasts. The king's expression was unreadable but I saw a wash of color across the bridge of his nose that sent some feminine part of me I'd rarely acknowledged purring with satisfaction. It helped me to smile, and mean it this time. "I am grateful."

"You're welcome, my lady," he said softly.

This time, when he kissed my hand, I felt a skittering of heat inside my belly. I watched him leave, stood very still until I no longer heard his footsteps echoing along the corridors. Then I leaned against the cold stone wall and wondered if it was mercenary to feel warmth towards the man simply because he had brought me a present.

It wasn't, I decided after a moment. But I hadn't softened towards him just because of the jewel. Something had shifted between us and I was both bemused and relieved when I realized what it was.

He was no longer angry with me.

Somewhere in between our chilly walk and the spark of heat that I had felt moments before, the king had stopped resenting me. Perhaps he had been convinced of the wisdom of our match, perhaps he had come to realize that I was not to blame for our impending union. But the hostility was definitely gone, and I let out a grateful sigh. It had bothered me greatly because while I did not wish for love between me and Robb Stark, I did desire a level of friendship. We had similar goals, after all, and friendship would make working towards them so much easier.

Speaking to Alys forgotten, I walked back into the room and found my sisters and Winfred seated, occupied with various tasks. They didn't fool me for a second. I walked over to the chest at the foot of my bed and threw it open, reaching inside and taking out every single one of my dresses.

"Adjust all the bodices," I told Winfred firmly.

* * *

The day of my wedding was a blur.

I remember getting up at the witching hour, when the world was all silver, blue, and gray. The moon danced over the encampments, the castle's dark stone, the great river. I sat at the window, watching my last night as a maiden slip by. When the moon's white light disappeared and the sky began to lighten I roused myself and crawled back to bed, closing my eyes until I heard my sisters' eager voices calling me to wake.

I couldn't touch my breakfast and my sisters didn't prod me, which was out of character for them. We had never had ladies' maids—there were simply too many Frey daughters to attend to. When my sisters insisted on waiting upon me and helping me to prepare for the wedding it was jarring—just another reminder of how things in my life were changing.

It took an hour of them scrubbing at me until I was bathed to their satisfaction. The hot water was scalding but my sisters had no sympathy—they declared that I had to be as perfect as possible. I suppose it was a matter of pride—they had been more furious with the king for his coldness than I ever was.

"We're going to make that bloody Stark see how lucky he is to have you," Margaret had declared over my objections as they wrestled me into the bath. I was both amused and touched by her language—I almost heard my father's voice in her words.

With my skin still tender and soft from the soak they smoothed attar into my skin and dripping hair. It was a delicious scent, and along with the gentle glide of my sisters' hands the knot that was my stomach eased slightly. It helped, focusing on the preparation. It took my mind off the event that I was preparing for.

"I've never smelled this before," I said idly, lifting the vial to examine its contents.

"Attar of orchid," Fara said helpfully, lifting my robe to my shoulders so that I would not chill. Each of my sisters now had a brush in hand and were lifting sections of my hair. "It's a plant that only thrives in hot, damp places. It's very rare. It has to be shipped to Westeros from Qarth."

"How on earth did you come by it?" I asked, fascinated.

"Found it in Kyra's work room," Margaret said with a grin, winking at me.

A horrified laugh escaped my lips and I prayed to all the gods that my sisters knew that there would be consequences for their mischief. Kyra's behavior towards me had only worsened in the last few days, particularly when she'd caught sight of the king's present. I had worn it because it seemed right to do so and because it truly was lovely. She had seen it as another attempt to provoke her and her fits of temper had escalated. That very night she had destroyed almost all of her own plants in the gardens rather than permit the flowers to be used for my wedding. Father had almost thrown her into the dungeons for that, but we managed to persuade him to lock her in her room instead. The guards had been given permission to gag and bind her if she caused any further trouble and while a part of me was pained that it had come to this, another part was relieved. The wedding was a farce, but that was all the more reason for me to not want her there—I didn't need additional stress.

After some debate my sisters agreed among themselves that it was best to simply let my hair flow loose. It was too long and too stubbornly straight to hold any sort of style. They helped me don my dress, the ceremonial cloak, and my engagement gift. There was an argument over rouge and creams where Fara and Alys thankfully prevailed against their use. Margaret did not have much time to sulk because they had barely declared me ready when one of our brothers was at the door, declaring it time for me to come down.

It was a wonder that they didn't have to carry me down. My legs felt wooden and my mouth was dry. Although the keep had been a beehive of activity since the king's arrival now it stood eerily silent. Or perhaps I was simply too deafened by the sound of the blood rushing in my ears. When I arrived at the great hall, where the wedding was to take place, I was certain that I could, for the first time in my entire life, possibly faint. I was barely conscious of the crowd parting to allow me to reach my father, who waited by the closed doors.

His old, weathered hand took mine. His face never lost its stern expression but just as the guards reached for the doors I could have sworn he winked.

The great hall was filled from end to end. I barely heard the harps that my sisters were no doubt playing beautifully as my father led me forward. Around me was a sea of faces I was certain that I ought to be familiar with but I felt utterly witless as I was marched down to my betrothed. I kept my back straight, my chin high, and a smile firmly on my mouth, but if my father did not have my hand in his I might have found it in me to bolt.

They had cleared the dais of my father's customary seat. There stood a septon I had never seen before.

And the king.

I stopped before the dais and my father lifted my house's cloak off my shoulders. The king stepped forward with a white cloak. The dire wolf rippled as he spread it out and placed it on me. He reached for my left hand just as my father released my right and I stepped onto the dais beside him. His hand was warm and callused, his grip firm. I had never noticed before how pleasant it was to hold his hand. He wove his long fingers with my small ones as the septon began to speak. His words washed over me as I looked into the face of the man who was to become my husband. It still felt impossible that this person was to be mine or I his. The light from the towering window behind the septon was golden, the sun so strong that I could actually feel its warmth through the glass. Or was I simply blushing?

"Your Grace?"

The septon's gentle prompt broke the surreal moment. We both turned to look at him blankly.

"Your vows," the septon said with a small smile. He was holding a ring towards the king.

The king released my hand so that he could slip the ring onto my finger. A strange calm—the first I felt that day—slid over me as I took in the weight of it on my finger. I lifted my eyes to the king and in his gaze I saw that we had both felt what had taken place in that instant: I was now his queen.

If there was sadness in the king's eyes and bitterness in the lines around his mouth, his strong, steady voice showed none of it. It echoed around the hall, speaking the old words.

"With this ring I do take you to my lawful wedded wife, lady of my house, and Queen in the North. I swear upon the old gods and the new that I shall cherish and love you…"

At the word "love" the edges of my mouth kicked up in amusement. The king noticed, but his answering smile was brittle, a shadow without any warmth.

* * *

"You are a fine dancer, Your Grace."

"As are you, Lord Umber," I replied with a grin. We were slightly out of breath after one of the more spirited country dances.

The sun had finally sunk beneath the horizon and I had danced with almost every one of the bannermen. My feet ached and I had far too little to eat and far too much wine, but I was, to my surprise, enjoying myself. The feast was a success—or perhaps everyone was simply very determined to enjoy themselves after three years of war. In any case the entire keep—and a good part of its surrounding area—was alive with laughter and song. The kitchens were hard at work to keep the food coming and the cellars had been all but emptied. At first I had been alarmed by the rate of consumption—people seemed to have forgotten that winter was coming and it was important to conserve. But when my father himself and several of the bannermen had traipsed into the cellar to drag out more barrels of wine and ale I had surmised that they hadn't forgotten in the least—they simply didn't want to care. Not today. People had been waiting for an occasion to stop worrying for a long time.

"Not worn out yet, are you?" the Greatjon asked me with a sly smile. I had taken his arm as we had cleared the dance floor. My legs were beginning to feel genuinely unsteady after all the dancing I had been doing. "I hope you've some life left in you yet for the king."

"I have plenty left for His Grace if he were to ask me to dance again," I said primly, deliberately misinterpreting him.

Lord Umber laughed uproariously and I couldn't help my own chuckle. For some reason I was not offended by his crudeness. He rather reminded me of my father, if my father were a more humorous person.

"Let us take you to him, then," he said, still chortling.

My eyes roamed the great hall for my husband. We had long since left our places of honor at the table and joined the celebrating throng. My father himself had pulled my husband from his seat to do his duty to my countless sisters, cousins, aunts, and nieces. Wryly I wondered if he had any life left in him for _me._

It seemed that I would soon find out.

"Where is the bride?" came my father's voice, booming over the din. The music came to a stop and whispers and titters spread through the hall like wildfire.

I froze, realizing that it was time.

My father's prolific history had left me with no illusions about what went on between husband and wife after the wedding, and if I had any left the name they gave to the custom in our lands—"The Bedding"—was certain to dispel them. But knowing what was about to happen did not prevent the terror that seized me as Lord Umber called my father's attention to where I was. Without hesitation the crowd tightened around me and I was lifted high by several strong arms to an approving roar from the onlookers.

I clung to my dignity, trying not to squeak as unfamiliar hands gripped me about the thighs and the waist. My gaze swung about wildly until I saw my husband, similarly held aloft, but seeing him—and knowing what we were expected to do in the following moments—did not help me.

They bore us out of the great hall and there was so much cheering that I briefly contemplated screaming—no one would hear me, anyway. We were taken up to a room that I had known never to have been used since before I had been born. It had been the quarters of the first Lady Frey, and my father had kept it empty since her passing. It had been restored precisely for the king's use before the king had informed my father that he would be spending his nights at the encampment.

Except _this_ night, of course.

I was lowered to my feet and I looked around at the people who had clustered into the room. My father was there, as were a few of my brothers. I saw my dearest sisters—Alys, Fara, and Margaret—at the doorway, their gazes ranging from sympathetic to encouraging. Lady Catelyn Stark was there, and a good number of Robb's bannermen were there apart from Lord Umber. There were distant cousins and aunts, soldiers that I did not know, and so many others that I failed to take notice of the moment that Lady Stark stepped before me and reached for the veil that had been fastened to my hair.

I glanced to the side and saw that my father and the other men had begun to undress my husband. I closed my eyes as gentle hands reached for my clothing and began to lay me bare.

_This means nothing to me,_ I chanted in my mind as I felt my gown loosen. The pounding of my heart made it seem like it was about to tear out of my chest at any moment. I made a conscious effort to keep my breathing slow and even. A soft whoosh and the glide of fabric against my skin made me realize that my gown had pooled to the floor. I lifted my arms and the women who attended to me pulled my shift off. They reached for my slippers as I stepped out of them and I straightened, bare save for the ring that was on my finger and the ruby that still hung from my neck. I clutched it without thinking when Lady Stark reached for it and she withdrew, smiling at me understandingly.

I could hear the men filing out and the women around me left as well. The click of the latch boomed in my ears and I could not bring myself to look at my husband. For a while there was nothing in the air but the crackle of the flames in the hearth and the sound of ongoing merrymaking. And then I heard soft footfalls before my husband's feet came into view. His strong, muscular legs and thighs, and…

_Oh, dear gods._

My eyes jumped upwards to meet his, my cheeks flaming. He was looking at me almost fiercely and I could not stop the shiver that traipsed over my skin.

"Don't be afraid," he whispered, his deep voice rough.

"I'm not," I whispered back, but we both knew it to be a lie. Every instinct screamed at me to run, to fight what was about to happen. There was no way that _that_ was going inside me without it tearing me apart.

But that was part of the bargain, and if it needed to be done, it needed to be done. I kept my eyes on his face as he stepped closer and lifted me into his arms. The world tilted and I felt sick, my stomach turning with fear. He carried me to the bed, laying me slowly over the furs. I inched back until my elbows bumped into the pillows. He followed my progress, his powerful body crouching over mine so that his face hovered above my own.

He was about to kiss me.

I turned my face away sharply and he froze, his hot breath puffing against my cheek. I closed my eyes, furious with myself because of what the action betrayed.

His lips brushed against my cheek and I opened my eyes. His expression was serious, but he did not look offended. He lifted himself off me slightly and I let myself breathe, only to gasp when one of his hands cupped one of my breasts. His touch was scalding hot and my back arched involuntarily. As if to make up for not being able to kiss me on the mouth, he busied himself with kissing me everywhere else. His rough hands slid over me and I lay back passively, my hands bunched into fists in the sheets as I tried not to pull away from the foreign sensations of his touch, his searing mouth and the tingling scrape of his beard.

When I felt him nip the skin on the inside of my thigh I jerked back, my thighs clenching together. I reared up against the pillows, my terrified gaze clashing against his determined one.

"Please, Your Grace," I said desperately, certain I would be unable to take much more, "just…just finish it."

He frowned. "Do you know what you're asking, my lady?"

I nodded. "Waiting won't make it any easier."

He didn't move and only then did I realize that the words were rather insulting. I opened my mouth to apologize but he laid a finger across my lips.

"Lie back," he ordered, a large hand settling between my breasts to push me back down into the pillows. He then spread my thighs and settled between them. I stiffened at the hardness that pushed against my core but I bit down on the whimpers that clawed up my throat and kept my eyes on my husband's face. He didn't seem to be enjoying it any more than I was. He planted one hand in the pillow beside my head and kept the other on my hip as he moved.

It hurt. I grit my teeth against the pain, forcing myself to be still. His eyes were like chips of ice in the firelight, his features almost as taut as my own. He moved slowly, and the pain grew with every fraction of him inside me—I almost screamed at him to just get it over with. When he finally stilled I blew out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. I tried to shift but he tightened his grip on my hip and I winced, certain I'd have bruises there in the morning. The hand that was bunched into the pillow lifted to brush at my face as he leaned back slightly. I reached up to touch his wrist, although I don't know if I wanted to pull his hand away from my face or keep it there. The gesture didn't feel right. The expression on his face was even stonier than before. He took a deep breath.

"Forgive me."

Before I could even understand what he meant he surged forward, hard and rough, and I could not stop the scream that tore from my throat as agony ripped through me. I clawed at the sheets, at his wrist, gasping in air for another scream, but he didn't move again and I throttled the scream into a choked sob. His hand slid behind my head, cupping it and forcing me to keep my face towards him. Tears were streaking down my face. His face was grim, softened only by a touch of pity in his eyes. For some reason, the pity hurt. I felt humiliated by it, and that humiliation almost made me forget how physically painful it was to have him. I mustered my strength, my dignity. Slowly, the tears stopped.

When I spoke my voice was soft, but calm. "Finish it."

He still tried to be gentle. He didn't know it hurt me more, both in body and spirit. I tried to focus on breathing. His own breathing had become rough. Both his hands were on my hips now, pulling me higher against him as his body took over. For the first time since we started his eyes slammed shut. He was growling with pleasure, his body tightening even as he begun to shake. He came inside me with a hoarse shout and I gasped at the explosion of wetness.

He collapsed over me, heaving. The ordeal was finally over. My arms slid over his broad shoulders, whether to comfort him or to seek my own comfort, I'm unsure. I closed my eyes and let the weariness come, doing my best to remind myself:

_This means nothing to me._

* * *

**Author's Note #2:** So…what did you think?

Elle and mrk010585, I honestly can't think of a name to give her, haha! What do you think of "Morgan"? But seriously, I didn't want to give her a name because in my mind she's "the Frey girl that Robb was supposed to marry." If you have any suggestions, let me know! I promise to think about it. Thanks for reviewing! SuziQ22, and darth wannabe, thank you so much! I really hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as the last one.

_**Next Chapter:**_ _Winterfell, Jon Snow, and a milestone in the royal couple's marriage._


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Robb Stark or any of the other characters created by George R. R. Martin. Neither do I have any claim over his work in _A Song of Ice and Fire_. I do not earn any profit from this.

**Author's Note:** Hi guys! First, I want to apologize for turning out this chapter rather later than I promised some of you. I make it a point to update within a week, but a few things got in the way. First, I had to make an impromptu trip to settle a problem with my school records. Before I could head home I had to be rushed to the emergency room because of a severe allergic reaction to hair dye. I had just gotten my hair colored the day before at a new salon. The swelling went down almost immediately after I was administered drugs, but the rashes persisted for days and I just couldn't bring myself to write until they went away. So here's the third chapter! Better late than never, right?

I hope you'll forgive the liberties I took with the damage done to Winterfell.

As always, responses to reviewers who weren't logged in are at the end of the chapter. Please check the second author's note for an announcement that I hope will be well-received. Thank you for continuing to support this story!

* * *

I woke in my husband's arms feeling like I was on the brink of death. I had slipped into strange dreams pinned beneath him, roused only when I had felt the vague discomfort of him leaving my body and moving to my side. Exhaustion had then come over me and I had gone under willingly, content to float in the comfort of unconsciousness. That comfort was gone now.

Everything hurt, and nothing I did—praying to the gods, lying still, trying to go back to sleep—made it better. The solid warmth of my husband's body against my back made me feel overheated; the scent of musk, our mingled sweat, and my blood overwhelming my sensitive nose and making me queasy. The wine I had drunk the night before had not helped me in the slightest during the consummation of our marriage. Now it only served to give me a splitting headache that made everything worse.

The merry sunlight dancing into the room—and into my eyes—did not ease that headache in the slightest, even when I squeezed my eyes shut. Grumbling, I turned in the circle of the king's arms so that we faced each other. The grumble turned into a groan when a wrenching pain shot up from a place in my body that I had never paid much attention to before I was wed. I stilled and took a deep breath, relief filling me when the sensation dwindled into a dull ache. If I didn't move it hurt less than my head. So I remained unmoving, finding distraction in watching the King in the North sleep.

He had such a compelling face, I thought absently. It was beautiful, but it was a man's face, carved in strong, sculpted slopes so that it had a rugged sort of poetry to it. It was unscarred—unlike the rest of him. My eyes skimmed down his throat to his chest. Beneath a light dusting of auburn hair I saw the ridges of a jagged line right above his heart, near the juncture of his shoulder. I lifted a hand—perhaps the only part of me that didn't protest at movement—to trace over it. It was the mark of the arrow wound he had taken at the Crag.

My husband stirred. I watched him, noting with interest that he was slow to wake. He did not snap out of his dreams or rush away from sleep the way I expected him to. Instead he made vaguely protesting sounds, his arms tightening around me, his mouth nuzzling mindlessly at my throat. I might have been amused, except that as he did so one of his hands cupped my thigh, bringing it high over his hip and pressing me against him. I hissed in pain and distress—he was hard as stone and ready to take me once again.

Perhaps if he had been silent, I would have let him. But the gods granted me a strange kind of mercy, and as I braced myself for the pain of invasion I heard his soft, aching whisper.

"Jeyne."

The hand that I had rested against his chest turned into a claw, and even my muscle-bound husband felt the sting. He froze—then he lifted his head ever so slowly away from my neck. His blue-gray eyes were wide with shock and at that moment, completely open to me.

"Not quite, Your Grace," I rasped, my hand relaxing against his chest when it was clear that he was not about to enter me. The tension left my body even as his remained replete with it. It was as though he was waiting for the sword blow to fall…except that I wasn't willing to be his executioner.

He was so _vulnerable._ I saw the horror on his eyes even though his blank expression did not change. It came on the heels of realization and remembrance. I almost envied him the luxury of being able to forget, at least for a few precious moments, that I had just been wedded and bedded. I was in too much pain not to remember how I came to be in such a state. Then again, I wasn't the one who had so forgotten herself as to say a lover's name when I was in bed with my spouse. It was another one of the gods' strange mercies.

I imagined that I could see the wheels in his head spinning furiously, trying to find something to say. It was my turn to pity him. There was really nothing he could say to help this moment. We would simply have to leave it behind.

"Perhaps we should rise, Your Grace," I suggested quietly, my fingers sliding over the hand that was still cupping my thigh. I lifted his hand gently off. "I am certain that there will be much to prepare if you are to ride south today."

He blinked, surprise washing over his features. I lifted my thigh away from him, flinching as the pain lanced through my core once more. His eyes flicked over me in concern and I saw his jaw tighten. I followed his gaze and couldn't stop a sharp intake of breath—I looked as horrible as I felt, it seemed. Despite the king's efforts to be gentle there was blood everywhere. It had stained the sheets and furs beneath us and it had crusted along both our legs and thighs. There were bruises on my hip, as I had expected there to be. I wondered what my face looked like.

"I will send for a Maester," he growled, remorse evident in his tone.

"There is no need, Your Grace," I said quickly, genuinely averse to the thought. "This is what is expected when a man takes a virgin."

He scowled at me. "Yes, I know. But this is too much blood, even for a maiden."

I may have pitied him, but I would be unable to resist taking a swipe or two if he persisted in setting himself up in such a way. I raised a brow and gave him a pointed look. "I suppose you ought to know, Your Grace. I certainly haven't bedded a virgin before."

He flushed, his jaw clenching as he looked away from me—but not before I saw the curious mixture of guilt and fury in his eyes.

"I will be fine, Your Grace," I said firmly, pressing my victory when he remained silent. "A long soak, some salve, and a pot of herb tea are all I need."

He seemed unconvinced, but at my narrowed stare he relented. "All right," he muttered, moving off the bed. I had a view of his impressive frame as he drew on his breeches—the broad shoulders and massive chest that cut sharply to his narrow waist. I had been too panic-stricken to appreciate his unclothed form before. I remembered his legs and thighs well enough, though, and…

I coughed at the sight of that part of him. Did it never go down?

He pulled on his shirt. "I'll see to it that a servant brings what you need," he told me as he pulled on his boots. "Shall I send for breakfast as well?"

"No, thank you, Your Grace," I replied, my smile wan. Although I did not know if it was the wine, the smell that hung in the air, or the pain that made my stomach rebel, I did know that if they brought me food I should just as well toss it onto the floor—that was where it was going to end up after I retched, after all. I closed my eyes, my stomach turning even at the _thought_ of food.

"Lady Frey…"

My eyes snapped open. The king had stopped by door, contemplating me broodingly. It seemed that he had finally come up with something to say about calling me "Jeyne." Perhaps if he hadn't already said something to catch my attention, I would have been willing to listen to it.

"I'm not 'Lady Frey' anymore, Your Grace," I said patiently, one corner of my mouth kicking up. And because I could not help myself—"I'm your queen. Please, at least try to remember _that."_

I think he would have preferred it if I had slammed my fist into his face. I could sense the mortification that his stony exterior contained and for some reason it made me grin. And laugh. Had losing my virginity made me go mad?

Had taking my virginity made _him_ go mad? He did not seem flummoxed by my laughter. Surprised, perhaps, but not bemused. Indeed, his features relaxed and he grinned back, making me laugh harder. I had always known that our marriage was a farce, but I had never found it funny before. Ironically, it was now serving as an inside joke between me and my husband, and when he spoke it was with the warmest tone he had ever used with me.

"I will…Your Grace."

* * *

It was three more weeks after my wedding before I finally left home. In spite of what I had said to him, I spent most of the first week abed, silently cursing my husband and all men to perdition. I had been expecting the pain of the wedding night. I had not taken into account the hardship of the after.

And it wasn't just the physical pain that had taxed me. It was how people around me had behaved. Along with the attendant who had brought my requested items had come my father and Lady Stark. My father had seen the blood and crowed about it, even commanding the servant to take the bloodied sheets and furs to be shown as proof of my honor. I had been so horrified that I forgot to be embarrassed by my nakedness.

"You see, Lady Stark?" my father had said with a self-satisfied smirk. "My girl knows how to keep her legs closed. She wouldn't have spread her legs for your boy if he weren't her husband, king or not. Aren't you glad your son kept faith with me?"

I had been so surprised that I forgot to be horrified. Apparently, my father had also heard about Jeyne Westerling and how she had almost become Queen in the North. He simply had never taken it up before. Not that I had expected him to speak with me or any of us about such things, but the man never failed to raise the nine hells over an issue of our house's honor.

"Indeed, Lord Walder," Lady Stark had said politely, but as her eyes had passed over the bloodied fabrics and over my body I had caught sight of her reservations.

It was why I had protested against summoning a Maester. The king may have chosen me for my skill at running a keep, but there were other responsibilities I would have to see to as a wife. If I could not see to my husband's needs it would not matter how well I kept his house. If I could not bear him strong, healthy children, it would not matter if I managed to turn Winterfell into a palace to rival the Red Keep or any holding in the Seven Kingdoms. If I was too frail to manage one night with the king without asking for help, how would I manage the rest of what I was expected to do?

But whatever Lady Stark's concerns regarding my fitness as a wife, if not a queen, she had the grace to keep them to herself. And I noted in the days following her son's departure for the south—which had involved a still awkward, if friendlier, goodbye in our chamber since I could not walk without biting down on a yelp—that if she saw any problems with me she hastened to be of help rather than simply criticize. She had been at my side almost as often as any of my dearest sisters during the week I spent recovering and had made me feel at ease about the matter, which became a thing of growing embarrassment for me with every day that the pain lingered. I was no Brienne of Tarth, but I had never seen myself as being some frail, wilting flower, either.

"My first time was unpleasant as well," Lady Stark had confided after sending my sisters off to fetch a number of random items the second day after the wedding. "And my husband rode off the very next day, just the same as yours. But we grew to love one another. And as to the act…" She had trailed off, as though searching for the best way to put it. "Well, I ask that you do not base your opinion of it on your wedding night. It is a rare woman who loses her innocence with much enjoyment."

I made myself believe her even though a part of me was convinced that I would never enjoy the hurtful invasion. She had five children, after all. Her advice was reassuring and it kept me afloat throughout the lowering experience of having to recuperate from the sexual act.

Lady Stark's presence also made leaving home a little bit easier. While I was abed she spoke to me about Winterfell and the work that awaited me there. Perhaps others might have found it odd or burdensome to listen to, but it seemed someone had told Lady Stark quite a bit about me. The prospect of doing something helpful and productive was exciting, and by the end of three weeks I was chomping at the bit to be gone.

Focusing on what had to be done also kept me from lingering on what had to be left behind. When I was well enough to do so, I spent days simply walking around the keep, trying to overcome the sense of loss that came with the knowledge that this would no longer be my home. The sense of belonging was already slipping away—everywhere I went people were bowing and curtsying, mumbling awkward "Your Grace"s to me as though they weren't the very cooks or stablehands who'd swatted me on the bottom when I had been a naughty child. My functions in the keep had been taken over by my siblings and it seemed that they were as eager to get on without me as I was to be gone. I had the urgent sense to leave before I lost my nerve. There were a few moments of madness in that time I spent preparing when I imagined simply barricading myself in my chamber and refusing to go north.

The hardest day was the one I spent in my old room, sorting out my belongings with Alys, Fara, and Margaret. I did not have much by way of physical possessions, but it seemed that my father was determined to make up for it, if belatedly. I had wanted to interject that I was now a married woman and my husband would see to my things if I needed them, but I realized that what drove him to it was the same sense of pride that had made him brag to Lady Stark about my virtue.

Cobblers were brought in to craft new footwear, which I found to be both an embarrassing and enlightening experience. I had always had rather large feet in comparison to my sisters and I had always blessed the fact that our dresses were so long that they covered my plain, serviceable work boots. I could never imagine wearing the dainty little slippers the rest of my sisters would wear when there was occasion for them. The compromise on my wedding day had been a pair of white calfskin boots that an aunt had brought as an early wedding present. But it seemed that anything could be done if one did not care about the expense, and so my father managed to find a cobbler who could make shoes that made even my sturdy feet appear winsome. My father called for jewelers as well, but I had never been one for much adornment. My wedding ring and engagement present already felt rather excessive. To forestall an argument I agreed to have a cloak pin made in the form of a bridge. I had taken to wearing the dire wolf cloak my husband had placed on me on my wedding day and to have it bound together by a bridge seemed like a nice touch—or at least both my father and Lady Stark agreed that it was. Winfred arrived once more, this time in the company of merchants bearing silks and furs and all sorts of fabric, and my sisters and I determined that I had to give away some of my other apparel if there was to be room for my new ones.

"If I'd have known that father would be having new ones made, I would never have asked Winfred to lower all the bodices of these dresses," I muttered, examining the clothes that were spread out across the room critically. I bit back the remark that it was wasteful of him to go through such an expense, particularly since none of my sisters were receiving any new things. Even hand-me-downs were a luxury in the Frey household, given the number of daughters, and as I glanced at my sisters' faces I saw that they were looking forward to taking my old things, especially since they were in such good condition.

"Well, we can still wear them," Alys observed, touching a light blue one that she had always fancied on me. "Thank the gods we're all relatively the same size."

"They just won't be as impressive to look at without Her Grace's gifts," Margaret teased, winking at me. She reached for a dark green dress and lifted it experimentally against herself. "These will have to be taken in along the chest."

"And the hips," Fara added impishly, spreading out a red one I had always loved.

She jerked away from it when I burst into tears.

"I didn't mean it like _that!"_ she cried out hastily, her expression so horrified that it was comical. "You just happen to be curvier than the rest of us in those areas."

It was true, but even if I had inferred that my sisters were calling me fat it wasn't what had upset me. I could not explain because when they clustered around me to coo and pet at me soothingly it had only made me cry more. The tears only abated when Fara folded up the red dress and pushed it into my hands.

"You don't have to give it away if you don't want to," she said earnestly, and I saw that she was doing her best to let go of her desire to have it. "You always looked wonderful in this one anyway."

I began to laugh and I pushed the dress back to my astonished sister. Then I threw my arms around her and held tight as the tears came again.

The sadness still had a firm grip on my voice and I was unable to say what I wanted: I was going to miss them so much. More than the familiar stone walls, the coziness of the bed I had slept nearly all of my eighteen years in, the sound of the wind whistling through, the steady hum and bustle of the keep, and the restless, prickly energy of so many Freys in one place, I would miss _this._ I would miss Alys' gentleness and attentiveness, Fara and Margaret's irreverence and wit. I would miss waking to Fara plucking an eyelash or Margaret tickling my toes. I would miss falling asleep to Alys' sweet voice singing a lullaby our mother used to sing. This was the parting that I had most dreaded.

Perhaps my tears spoke for me, or perhaps the same pain lingered in their hearts, but I did not need to explain. There were tears on their cheeks, too, and we held each other close until no more would come. Fara kept the red dress, and many others, and when Winfred arrived a week later with my new clothes even the dress I had on that day was passed along. But I never cried another tear, not even on the day I left.

* * *

The day I reached Winterfell was the last sunny day that year. We had been riding for nearly a fortnight and I had been consumed by a nervous sort of excitement. It was the only emotion that I would allow myself to linger on with every mile that came between me and the Twins. Soon the frantic desire to demand that the carriages be brought round ebbed and the anticipation for my task grew. It wasn't that reckless eagerness that my brothers had often spoken of in discussing the freedom campaign, the kind of excitement that came to brave and adventurous souls. But it was certainly the eagerness of a person with a purpose, and when I finally caught sight of the ancient keep in the sharp light right after sunrise I felt a thrill shoot through me.

I turned to Lady Catelyn, but whatever words I had meant to say died on my lips at the sorrowful look on her face. I had never seen Winterfell before, but it was clear from her expression that what we were approaching was a far cry from her memories of it. She turned her gaze away from the window and I slid the curtain over it.

We had spent the better part of five weeks together, two of them where we only had each other for company inside a carriage. We had spent much of that time sharing, and I was glad to find that Catelyn Stark was a kindred soul. We already had one similarity—we had both married men whom we did not love out of duty to our houses. The two weeks we traveled north were spent discovering what else we might have in common. I had told her about how I had come to be so interested and involved in the running of a keep. I had told her about my sisters and what it was like to have so many of them about growing up. I had told her about what it had been like when my brothers and my father's men had gone to war. In turn, she had spoken to me about almost all she had witnessed during the war. She had spoken to me about the night that Renly Baratheon had been murdered by a shadow. She had spoken to me about the treacheries involving Roose Bolton, Petyr Baelish, and Theon Greyjoy. She had spoken to me about the sacking and burning of Winterfell, the slow progress that the soldiers were making in rebuilding it.

But just as I was reluctant to speak of certain things—Kyra, Jeyne Westerling—so did Lady Stark display reluctance to discuss some matters. If she mentioned Lord Eddard Stark it was always in passing, allowing me only glimpses of what the man had been like. Now and then she would speak of her daughters, Sansa and Arya, with a fondness laced with pain. Sansa was Tyrion Lannister's queen and there had been little opportunity for Lady Catelyn to see her before the truce. Even then their encounters had been few, and far too brief. Arya was in Bravos, rumored to be undertaking the challenge to join the some shadowy guild, and while Lady Catelyn knew she was alive and well there had been no exchange between them. Of Bran and Rickon, her youngest children, who had been burned at Winterfell, she said nothing. It made me wonder how often my father spoke of me now that I had gone, and what he said.

Yet whatever her reticence on a few topics, there was one where she never ceased to have something to say: my husband. It was ironic, as it was the subject that I was least eager to learn about. I wasn't a fool—I needed to know my husband better if our partnership was to grow. But something in Lady Catelyn's tone whenever she spoke of him made me uncomfortable. Perhaps it was because beneath her words was an undercurrent of persuasion, although I was uncertain as to what she was trying to make me believe. "Please don't judge my son hastily"? "Give my son a chance"? "Do you realize how fortunate you are to be married to him"? Had she gotten the impression that I disliked the king?

I liked the king well enough, but I did not allow myself to dwell on him—odd behavior for a bride, perhaps, but I wasn't like most brides. For one, my husband seemed to desire space between us as much as I did. For another, we both had duties to attend to that would demand much of our time. Put briefly, neither of us had the time nor the inclination for a proper courtship—not when being congenial strangers was so convenient.

The carriage rolled to a stop and I was jerked from my musing. There was a smart rap on the door signaling the guards' intrusion into our privacy. I glanced up in time to see Lady Catelyn shift from a dispirited, miserable woman to the proud Lady of Winterfell. My back straightened an inch further—after all, I was Lady of Winterfell now, too. I kept my face calm—I had yet to master the stern, imposing look that Lady Catelyn managed so well.

We had already gotten past the gates and entered the courtyard of the great keep. It had not yet been paved with stones, and I made a mental note that this would be one of my first priorities. I descended from the carriage after Lady Stark, nodding my thanks to the soldier who was helping me down. I was glad for my boots—one of the few pairs I had managed to convince my father to have made—as I stepped onto the ground. It was dry, thank the Seven, but I knew that it would change as soon as winter set in. The annoyingly fastidious part of myself berated me for wearing my white cloak, but I had little time to think as I took in the rest of what was before me.

The soldiers had gathered in the courtyard and I guessed that they were at least a hundred in number. There were what appeared to be craftsmen and masons as well, and I glimpsed a few working women. I started a little when the sea of people swept downwards into bows—and remained bent. I felt a momentary flutter of panic until I remembered what we had done when the king had first come to the Twins.

I searched for the person in charge, my eyes landing on a soldier who knelt a few paces in front of the rest. As I approached I had a sense that I knew him, though from where remained elusive. I stopped before him and offered him my hand—palm up. He took my hand and turned it over, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. I tried not to show my embarrassment—only the king offered a hand to be shaken. The queen's hand was to be kissed.

The soldier rose, and it was then that I noticed his garb. He did not bear the Stark colors or emblems on his armor or cloak. His face was badly scarred, but I could see that it had been handsome once. A cloud of red-gold hair framed his broken features.

"Who are you?" I asked in a low voice as the crowd rose to its feet behind him.

"I am the interim captain of the guard here at Winterfell," he replied in a scratchy voice. "Beric Dondarrion at your service, Your Grace."

The name nudged at something in my memory. "Of House Dondarrion in Blackhaven? You're a long way from the Stormlands, Ser Beric."

"Not 'Ser', Your Grace, I was never knighted," the captain corrected with a smile. "I am of Blackhaven, although my house has fallen into disarray since the war."

"Yes, the last I'd heard of it was when Stanis Baratheon took Blackhaven. There was no lord to defend it because…" I trailed off at the captain's wince. Suddenly his battered mien made sense. "Beric Dondarrion, Lord of Blackhaven? The leader of the Brotherhood Without Banners?"

He bowed again. "As I've said, at your service, Your Grace."

I turned to look at Lady Catelyn. This was something she had never mentioned. She carefully avoided my gaze.

"We are reluctant to declare ourselves so openly, Your Grace," Beric said softly, forestalling any questioning and drawing my attention back to him. "There are some who still see the Brotherhood as a band of criminals. Many of us would like to return to our homes, but those lands are closed to us even with the king's truce. King Robb has kindly allowed us to take up temporary residence in Winterfell until he has negotiated our return with King Tyrion. We do not know how long this might take, so until then the Brotherhood will continue to guard the North. We are at your disposal, Your Grace."

It took me a while to reply, but when I did the first words out of my mouth surprised us both.

"So, technically, you're not the Brotherhood Without Banners anymore, are you? Since you now serve House Stark?"

The words were petty, but Beric seemed to understand the spirit in which they were said. He grinned at me and offered me his arm. "So it would seem, Your Grace. Shall I give you a tour?"

The tour did not take very long. There was not much to see because not much had been rebuilt and there were many areas of the keep that were too precarious for me to set foot in. Beric seemed slightly embarrassed—it had been over a year since Winterfell had been reclaimed, after all. But there was no need for him to feel that way. Progress had been slow because men were still thinking of the war. It was difficult to think of building or rebuilding when one had enemies who were determined to tear everything of value down.

Our final stop was what remained of the great hall. It's ceiling had partially collapsed, offering me a view of the ravaged chambers above it and even a bit of the grey sky. The soldiers had moved the remaining furniture to one side. Beric asked if I wanted to rest, but the sight of the great hall impressed upon me just how much needed to be done. There was no time to waste, and so I had him summon the craftsmen, masons, workers, and soldiers who might help me plan. They turned out to be a group of almost fifty people and we crowded along the tables pushed to the side of the great hall.

"Well," I said, unclasping the pin of my cloak. "Let's begin, shall we?"

* * *

It was, quite possibly, the happiest time of my life. I never voiced this aloud, of course, but I found myself thinking it every now and again as the days sped by and my work at the keep continued. I had always enjoyed work and had gotten rather used to taking charge—but I was always conscious of following someone else's directive. If my father had wanted me to find room in the keep for five more siblings, or to find more storage for ale, or to purchase new horses without parting with more than a handful of silver, I saw it done. As queen and lady of the keep, I realized that it was my demands that everyone else was to see to—and that realization threw me. I was embarrassed and unsure at first, particularly when even Lady Catelyn deferred to my choices, but with her encouragement and the readiness displayed by Beric and the other men to do my bidding it became more comfortable to carry authority. I had only ever known the weight of responsibility.

While the burning and sacking of Winterfell would never cease to be a tragedy, the razing of many parts of the keep offered us an opportunity to correct defects that had been too inconvenient to address before. For instance, the original keep had storage rooms that were far too small to hold the amount of supplies necessary to support the minor host that the king wanted stationed there. A new order was to be implemented as soon as the keep was rebuilt, and it involved keeping at least three hundred armed men in Winterfell at any given time. They were to be deployed in patrols of ten to twenty to keep the peace in the outlying areas—and to keep abreast of any hostile developments involving the Ironborn or any stragglers from Stanis Baratheon's forces. Losing Winterfell to Theon Greyjoy and twenty men had been a hard lesson, but at least the king was learning from it. In any case, that number of soldiers put together with the men of the Brotherhood meant that there would be greater call for supplies and places to put them.

The courtyard was paved with stones before a month had passed, much to my satisfaction, and the masons and craftsmen had set to work on restoring the great hall. I determined that the part of the keep currently occupied by the soldiers would serve as the garrison. Next to it the Brotherhood agreed to set up their comparatively small tower. Apart from this input I left the defensive structures to Beric.

Another task I had little hand in was the restoration of the Starks' chambers. Lady Catelyn saw to it herself, and if any of us took note of the fact that there were rooms set aside ostensibly for two little boys and two little girls, we said nothing about it. The only point of contention in this area was where I would sleep. I had taken up residence in my husband's old room, though any insight I might have had about him from it had been lost when Ramsay Bolton's men had stripped it bare. Lady Catelyn worked quickly to restore the master bedchamber—only to insist that I sleep there, as my husband was now master of Winterfell. It seemed to make sense to do so, except I could not help feeling like an interloper. It had not just been Lord Eddard's room, it had been Lady Catelyn's as well. They had lived and loved in that chamber, and while one of them was still around I felt that I had no business staying in it. To soothe her I made up some romantic prattle about wanting to stay in the room where my husband had grown. I knew she did not believe me, but thankfully she let the subject drop.

The only truly burdensome aspect of my duties had to do with money. I had never had much of it at my disposal before, so I had learned to use it well. With what needed doing, however, it seemed inevitable for the gold to pour from my hands like water. Knowing it was necessary did not ease my distress and I was in constant fear that my husband would return to emptied coffers and curse the day he agreed to wed a Frey girl. I did not share my fears with anyone, but Lady Catelyn and Beric both seemed to know about them, and they hastened to reassure me. The war had cost the North much, but there had also been a profit in it. The gold that had flowed into the Starks' coffers was either sweet from those ready to make truces or bitter from those upon whom it had been necessary to use force. Some gold had the strange mix of both bitter and sweet—the gold reclaimed from the treacherous Boltons and Greyjoys. But whatever the taste, the gold passed from my hands in such a current that every time I looked at the ledgers I was torn between astonishment and horror.

As quickly as the gold went, however, so the keep seemed to grow. By the second month the reconstruction of the Maester's Tower was underway. Maester Osmund, a sprightly man only a decade or so older than myself, was so keen for the building's completion that one morning he was found hefting stone alongside the other men. No one sought to dissuade him—an extra pair of hands was always welcome, after all. Also, Maester Osmund was in possession of a disposition that was quite unexpected for a man of his calling—he was loud, he cursed rather frequently and colorfully (as discovered on the day that a lad mishandled a lever straight into a vital part of the maester's anatomy), and he dealt with people in a brisk fashion that some found abrasive. He seemed better suited to being a soldier than a maester, although Lady Catelyn remarked that such was the sort of maester that the times demanded.

Kindly, grave scholars like Maester Luwin, who had been the previous maester at Winterfell, didn't last very long in such times. Lady Catelyn spoke of him often, and fondly, and of Ser Roderick Cassell, who had been master-at-arms of the Starks before the war. They had been fixtures at Winterfell for many years, the warrior and the healer. Lady Catelyn mused that the world had been so altered that soon men like Maester Osmund—who were both warrior and healer at the same time—would be the norm.

It was Maester Luwin's monument that I liked to visit in the godswood. The people who had fled Winterfell had returned after the fires had banked and had discovered him with his back against one of the ancient trees. A swift, clean cut had apparently brought him peace long before they had arrived, and they set him to rest where he had been found. Perhaps I was becoming fanciful from fatigue, but it felt as though something of the old man's benign spirit lingered. I had never been fond of forests and trees, but something about the gentle swaying of the boughs as the wind whispered through felt like the touch of a comforting soul. It became my custom to visit his monument every afternoon to seek that feeling of calm and well-being. My favorite time was always just as the sun was about to set, when it turned fiery in the west and cast long shadows about.

By the end of my second month at Winterfell I had become so used to those long shadows that I barely noticed the one that watched me as I sat before the Maester's monument, drinking in the quiet. Perhaps the most telling sign that winter was coming was the fact that the familiar voices in a forest—the birds, the insects, the game—had fallen silent. I was reflecting on the last time I had seen an animal out in the wild when something stepped out from behind a tree.

It was the largest wolf I had ever seen. I had never had a particular fear of wolves—I had always seen them mostly as pests in relation to our sheep—but then I had never been three feet away from one before. One that happened to be a _dire_ wolf.

I had seen the king's dire wolf, Grey Wind, only from a distance. He had never brought it into the Twins. I knew it was an imposing creature, on and off the battlefield, and it added to my husband's stature that he could control such a perilous thing.

I could not make any such claim. I stared at the beast as it approached, red eyes intent. It was a pure, unblemished white that stuck out amid the brilliant foliage on the ground. To stave off panic I took to berating myself about not noticing the large white wolf—it wasn't the easiest thing to miss. I would never outrun it, but I would have had the chance to climb a tree at least. As the blood rushed in my ears I wondered dizzily if dire wolves could climb trees.

"Ghost."

The deep voice reached me before the wolf did. It stopped right before me and sat on its haunches. It was difficult for me to swallow—physically and metaphorically—when I realized that with both of us seated it managed to be taller than me. Its head tilted to the side and the great mouth opened to allow a tongue to loll out in an expression that would have been friendly if it hadn't been on the face of a dire wolf.

I turned my head slowly away from the beast to look over my shoulder.

Jon Snow looked back at me, a tall figure in black. I had heard enough about Lord Eddard's bastard son to know him without needing introduction. The black raiment of the Night's Watch was a dead giveaway, as was his appearance. His dark, curling hair rather reminded me of my husband's, the strong bones in his face only a touch softer than the king's. They even shared the somewhat stocky build. The only thing off was the coloring—where my husband had hair the color of fine chestnut wood streaked with fire and eyes the color of a frozen lake, his half-brother carried the darkness of night in his hair and silver in his eyes. I had never set eyes on Lord Eddard, but I was willing to wager that his bastard son favored his appearance far more than his heir, in whom I saw more of Lady Catelyn. The gods' sense of humor could be cruel, though I realized that there was justice in the fact that Jon Snow's parentage could never be denied.

After all, whatever he looked like, he had what I had come to see as the Stark bearing. It was a gloomy, grave sort of grandeur that made people take them seriously, as in the case of my husband. In the case of Jon Snow, I would discover that it made me want to poke at him until that humorless exterior cracked.

"You shouldn't be out so late and so far into the wood," he said as he came forward. He looked thoroughly disapproving. "Winter is coming. Lady Stark made you out to have a bit more sense."

I learned two things in that instant. First, he did not treat me with deference the way everyone else at Winterfell did. Even Lady Catelyn had addressed me as "Your Grace." Second, I had apparently gotten used to that deferential treatment because the fact that he did not render it annoyed me. It made me want to nettle him.

"The only things out of place in these woods so far are a dire wolf and an errant brother of the Night's Watch," I said in a deliberately blithe tone that I had never heard myself use before. Truth be told, it rather sounded like Kyra's voice to my ears. "But if you've come to escort me back to the keep, Jon Snow, you could at least offer me a hand."

He narrowed his eyes at me—another gesture that reminded me of my husband—but he did offer me a hand. I took it and he pulled me effortlessly to my feet. I found that he was almost as tall as my husband and I had to tip my head far back to look at him. He said nothing—only stared down at me and kept a hold on my hand. Were all the Starks miserable conversationalists?

"Welcome back to Winterfell," I managed a polite smile, squeezing his hand when it seemed as though he would not let go. "I'm glad to meet you, Jon Snow."

He dropped my hand. "You'd be the first," he pronounced darkly, and I would have laughed if he didn't look quite so serious. He seemed to sense my amusement because the grooves between his brows deepened. "You're not what I expected to find."

"So you've said," I replied, letting the laugh bubble through. "What _did_ you hear about me?"

His shoulders lifted in a shrug. "That you were one of Walder Frey's daughters."

I waited for him to continue, but he said nothing more.

And then the implications of that sentence sank in.

I was torn between bursting into laughter at his boldness and smashing his face in with a rock in outrage. I did neither, however, and simply fixed him with a hard stare. Despite the death-glower, my tone came out amused.

"You aren't what I expected either. Have you always been so blunt? Or are you simply doing your best to offend me?"

He blinked rapidly, his features registering surprise for an instant before reassuming their grim countenance. "Forgive me, I've forgotten myself. I've been at the Wall for three years. Manners aren't high on our list of priorities there and men soon find that they can speak their minds freely."

"You mean where women aren't about," I needled him with some relish. I had never considered myself an unkind person, but it seemed that I had acquired a taste for prolonging the discomfort of Stark men. First my husband, now this unfortunate man.

"No, I mean where men don't have time to play games and call it courtesy." He frowned at me. "You're trying to start an argument."

I bit my tongue to prevent myself from sticking it out at him. His irritation was so perversely amusing that I gave him a genuine smile. "That's funny—I rather thought that was what you were trying to do."

I could see that it took a great deal for him to keep the surface calm. I was almost sorry for provoking him so, but I couldn't seem to help myself.

"I apologize for my words—" he paused, as though it had just occurred to him—"Your Grace. I did not mean any offense."

"Apology accepted. So," I looked around, remembering for the first time the presence of the dire wolf at my feet. I had been so absorbed with speaking to his master that I had forgotten about him. Ghost was still sitting patiently where he had stopped earlier on, watching us with great interest. "Are you and Ghost here to visit?"

"We've been sent for supplies," Jon answered, glancing down at his wolf. He reached down to pet the wolf's head and the beast gave a happy little yip that looked thoroughly out of place with its appearance. "I would have gone further south than Winterfell, but Robb sent a raven some moons ago and told me the keep was to be rebuilt."

"Yes, he asked you to check on me," I murmured, finding that I was still a little insulted by the fact that I needed checking up on. The amusement I'd been feeling evaporated almost instantly. "As I said, I'm glad to meet you, Jon Snow, but I do not need checking up on."

He raised a brow and glanced around the surrounding woods before giving me a speaking look.

"What do you think of the work we've managed so far?" I asked, not deigning to address his unspoken remark. "Do you think His Grace will like it?"

He shrugged. "The keep looks different."

It was my turn to narrow my eyes at him. "That tends to happen after a fire. What do you think of the new supply rooms?"

"They're larger."

"And the garrison?"

"Seems to fit all the soldiers."

"The Maester's Tower?"

"Large enough for one man."

I opened my mouth and closed it. Was he trying to provoke _me?_ I stared at him for a full minute and found, much to my surprise, that I couldn't tell.

"I see," I said at length. Despite our words to one another I found that I liked Jon Snow a great deal. "Do you have anything helpful to say to me?"

If he had been teasing before—it was a question I would ponder for weeks afterward—he sobered immediately. Fixing me with a forbidding look, he gave a stern warning:

"Stay out of the woods."

Largely out of stubbornness and partly out of perversity I did not heed him, and for the next three days he and Ghost followed me out into the godswood with such long-suffering determination that I relented and agreed to take my walks within the keep. The ramparts were not as high as those at the Twins, but the air was crisper. To my surprise, Jon Snow and his dire wolf accompanied me on those walks as well. I was annoyed at first, since I had already made a concession and didn't need to be coddled, but before long I realized that he wasn't dogging me in order to make sure I was safe. The thought warmed me inside and I was sorry a week later when he and Ghost returned to the Wall. Our conversations had not been special—I would talk about the work around the keep, he would make noncommittal statements that would irk me—but I had enjoyed having him around.

The only unpleasant effect of Jon's company was its bearing on my relationship with Lady Catelyn. I found that while I was building a friendship with Jon, my friendship with my mother-in-law cooled considerably. Lady Catelyn was far too refined to nag—she simply slipped in little comments about the things that needed my attention and praised me for not having any distractions. She took an interest in my daily escapes—which she had never minded when I had been taking them out in the woods on my own—and told me that I was perfectly entitled to them, although her words made me feel the opposite. Her dislike for Jon was something I had heard about, so perhaps I was naïve to think that I would not be caught in its wake.

"I always thought you took those walks to be alone," she said on the day before J0n's departure. "If I'd have known you'd wanted company, I'd have joined you."

I smiled, and because remaining silent seemed damning I invited her to join me on my daily sojourns. She was pleasant company, especially after Jon left, but having her along did seem to undo the point of having a respite from work. I didn't know why, but walking with Jon had seemed like a breather. With Lady Catelyn we still spoke of our duties—the only difference was that we tired our legs out while doing it.

Before long I was out in the godswood again in order to have a little privacy. After my walks with Lady Catelyn we would have dinner, and after that there would be more meetings. Apart from rebuilding Winterfell we still had to see to the concerns of the people who lived on Stark lands, after all. There had not been a Stark in Winterfell in a long time, but the people were in such straits that they were willing to make do. The crops had begun to fail—another sign of the incoming winter—and the people who had just regained their equilibrium after a long period of conflict were now dealing with a different kind of fear. If I was not attending to the keep I was attending to them. Staying in my room in order to enjoy my own company proved pointless—I was so conscious of the people waiting outside for my attention that I did not linger in my chamber.

The first time I crept out into the woods, I felt guilty. I thought of Jon and was surprised by the fact that I missed him. I had liked him well enough, but I had not expected to like him so much that the pang of longing was one I associated with my sisters. Missing my sisters had been an ache for which there seemed to be no balm and it was the one thing that truly marred my happiness. Coming to like someone as much as I liked Jon had been a helpful distraction, except now that he too was gone it only added to the small lump of loneliness I kept locked away in my heart.

I was still missing Jon Snow a month later. I was sitting in front of Maester Luwin's monument again as the moon rose and the twilight deepened into evening. Despite Jon's warnings, nothing had befallen me even though I had taken to lingering in the godswood during the dark hours. I had become rather convinced that nothing evil could befall me in the godswood, especially this haven where Maester Luwin rested.

As I thought this there was a flash of silver in the moonlight and I tensed—not out of fear, but out of excitement. The creature did not bother to conceal itself as it approached me and I jumped to my feet, a delighted sound escaping my throat. I stumbled towards it in the dark—and came up short when I realized that it was not Ghost that was coming towards me.

And it was not Jon Snow who came on the dire wolf's heels.

"My mother said I might find you here," my husband said by way of greeting.

His gravelly voice was jarring, despite its softness, and I slid my hands over my arms, where the hair had stood on end, teased up by shivers. Remembering myself, I dipped into a curtsy.

"Welcome back to Winterfell, Your Grace," I said quietly. I straightened and watched as he came closer. Grey Wind had stopped a fair distance from me, though the king had not commanded him to. Unlike Ghost, he did not seem eager to befriend me. There were no adoring looks or friendly yips.

I had forgotten how handsome Robb Stark was. I wondered why as he came closer. I had almost forgotten about him in the months we had been apart. Neither of us had sent ravens to one another, though now it struck me as odd that we didn't. I had become so absorbed with being Lady of Winterfell and Queen in the North that I'd barely remembered that those positions entailed having a lord and a king. Said king stopped before me and reached for my hand. He lifted it to his lips, pausing as something occurred to him.

"You're not wearing gloves," he commented, his hot breath puffing against my knuckles. My fingers curled self-consciously and I tried to tug my hand away, but he prevented me by holding fast. Thankfully, he lowered our joined hands even if he did not let go.

"I'm not very comfortable with gloves, Your Grace," I answered. "I like to be able to feel things when I touch them."

If it was an odd thing to say, the king did not comment on it. I felt my face heat as he twined our fingers together. It was a good thing he was wearing gloves, otherwise he'd have felt how rough my hands were. I wondered if he had noticed when he had held hands before. I had certainly noticed the calluses on his hands, but then I'd found them pleasant. Of course, the king was a man—he was supposed to have rough hands. But for a woman who was supposed to be queen?

"…but my mother said that you like having your time alone."

I blinked rapidly when his voice cut into my thoughts and I was mortified by the fact that I'd been so preoccupied with obsessing that I hadn't been listening again. I made a noncommittal hum in my throat, which he seemed to accept as a proper reply because he went on.

"I'm very glad with the work that has been done so far, my lady," he said solemnly. "I have heard nothing but good things from everyone I have spoken to about your leadership."

Well, I was certainly glad to have been paying attention when he said _that._ But outwardly I shrugged, a greater part of me uncomfortable with his praise. Why should he expect any less? If he married me for anything it was likely for my brain.

"Winter is coming," I said by way of explanation when he continued to stare at me. The young moon had risen fully, throwing a little more precious light. I wondered if my eyes were playing tricks on me as I met his stare. There was something in his face I couldn't put my finger on. There was surprise, certainly, and…respect?

Whatever it was, it did not show in his tone. "Yes," he said gruffly, "yet you come out into the woods unescorted and unarmed."

I very nearly rolled my eyes. "I've had this conversation before, Your Grace."

"And yet here you are, my lady," he said pointedly.

"Let us return to the keep then, since you're so worried," I shot back. When his fingers did not release mine I tightened my grip, swallowing my frustration when this only succeeded in making _my_ fingers hurt. To compound my impotent ire, he did not dignify my statement with a reply. He simply started walking while Grey Wind and I trudged along behind him.

It was the last night I spent walking in the woods for many years.

* * *

If I thought that things at Winterfell were going swimmingly before, it was nothing to what I witnessed when my husband arrived. It was as though the keep itself came to life to welcome its master, and I wondered if there was an otherworldly angle to the saying about always having a Stark in Winterfell. The work on the great hall, which had been moving at a tediously incremental pace, was completed not three days after his arrival. A week later several excited farmers had come by with freshly-caught wild horses that had snuck onto their lands. There were enough to fill out the newly-constructed extensions to the stables and breaking the horses provided the soldiers with some entertainment. Other farmers who had reported earlier that their crops had failed returned to inform us excitedly that some plants were resilient. It was likely that I was just being fanciful, but it seemed that everyone was energized by King Robb being there.

Everyone—except me.

If Winterfell blossomed with the king's presence, I felt myself wither a little. I had become rather spoiled by the attention, rather too used to holding the power in the keep. I had never considered myself an unduly power-hungry person, but it soon occurred to me that everyone had that capacity. It was a new experience, having to rein in the resentment and jealousy when people no longer turned exclusively to me for instruction. In order to address it—assuage it, that is—I took the king aside one evening to discuss which areas of running and repairing the keep were our exclusive domains. I did this ostensibly to be more efficient and to avoid overlapping or conflicting plans, but the heart of it was so that I could have things that were under my control, and mine alone.

"But if I told the masons to construct something not to your liking," he replied easily, "we would be forced to undo it. I think we should carry on as we have and make decisions together."

I stopped myself from saying that if we carried on as we did he would always get his way. Perhaps he did not mean to lord it over my opinions, but such was the way of things if the two of us were brought in to make a decision. The odds would always be in his favor—he was the king, he was the Stark, he was the man. His would always be the weightier counsel, no matter if mine was the better one.

Of course, this was only the way I felt about it. If I laid things out plainly, without feeling, it was clear that the king was doing his best to be fair to me. He always asked me about my thoughts, only giving his own after hearing mine. He gave me reports about subjects that I had no interest or experience in and made certain that we were both present for even the minutest decisions. Rationally, there was no reason for me to feel left out of the running of the keep.

Perhaps the proper term for how I felt was "invasion." While I could appreciate the fact that he included me even in such matters as the war council, it meant that we were constantly in each other's company. And being in the king's company exhausted me.

Much of it had to do with the fact that I was constantly on guard around him, despite his best efforts to set me at ease. I could not bring myself to relax when he was around me, and the reason for it came to me one night while we were dining in the great hall.

A minstrel had come to Winterfell that day, and for the first time in years the sweet strains of the lyre filtered through the stone walls of the keep. We all lingered past the usual mealtime in order to listen to his playing. At first he kept it courtly—the sort of music he deemed ladies enjoyed. But as the evening wore on and the men sank deeper into their cups his tunes grew livelier and more ribald.

The minstrel had just finished singing about a girl from the Riverlands whose breasts could tempt a septon when I laughingly glanced at my husband—and found him staring at me. Or rather, at _my_ breasts. The laughter died on my lips as he lifted his gaze and I recognized the look in his eyes. It was the same hot, fierce stare he had given me on our wedding night. And it sent me straight into a panic.

"Lady Catelyn," I said abruptly, jumping to my feet, "might I have a word in private, please?"

The exclamation caught more than Lady Catelyn's attention and the minstrel looked at me worriedly, clearly wondering if he had gone too far.

"Please continue," I managed as graciously as I could, smiling at him reassuringly. I looked apologetically at the soldiers who had started at my outburst and assumed something was wrong. "Forgive my suddenness, it's simply that I'm afraid if I don't discuss it now it will slip from my mind. I can be quite hen-witted at times."

By the time Lady Catelyn had risen to her feet and come to my side my cheeks were burning. I curtsied to my husband without really looking at his face—I could already feel the heat of his gaze boring through my skull. I marshaled my dignity and nodded in acknowledgment to the soldiers who had risen respectfully to their feet. I left unhurriedly, Lady Catelyn's footsteps echoing in my wake, but the moment the great doors closed behind me I felt myself almost deflate from relief.

Lady Catelyn kept walking and I followed her blindly, the words I wished to stay bouncing around inside me in an effort to burst forth. But when we were finally shut inside her chamber I could not bring myself to say them.

Lady Catelyn did not seem to need me to speak. She fixed me with a reproving stare. "That was not very well-done, Your Grace."

Her words seemed to free my own.

"I know," I groaned, throwing myself into a nearby chair. It was the first time we had spoken freely with one another since the wedge that had been an unwitting Jon Snow. "I just couldn't help myself when I caught him looking at me like that."

"You mean the way any husband ought to look at his wife?" Lady Catelyn said mercilessly, though not unkindly. "How exactly is he supposed to look at you, Your Grace?"

"I don't know!" I huffed out. "We're not exactly like most married people, Lady Catelyn, you know that. He's supposed to ignore me, or at least not look at me like…"

"Like he wants you," she supplied bluntly. I flinched at the word "want." She sighed and kneeled before me, her hands taking my own. "Robb wanting you is not a terrible thing, Your Grace. It will make everything easier for you."

"Will it?" I asked bleakly. "I can't see how. He'll want to do that thing with me again soon and I…"

It was difficult to admit that I was afraid of my husband taking me to bed. That I was admitting it to the man's mother struck me as something that should be funny, except no laughter would come. It wasn't that I found the king repulsive. I had kept in mind Lady Catelyn's assurance that not all interludes would be like the first. But knowing something rationally did not translate to easing an irrational feeling, and so I had done my best not to think about it. Now that my husband was here, however, not thinking about it was no longer an option.

Lady Catelyn's hands squeezed my own. Her voice was gentle, if amused. "You two haven't been intimate since your wedding night, I take it?"

I shook my head.

She chuckled. "It seems my son has more restraint now than I gave him credit for. This hasn't been the first night he's looked at you that way, Your Grace. Did you not notice?"

I frowned, trying to recall if I had ever caught him devouring me with his eyes the way he had been at dinner. I shook my head again, certain that I would have noticed if he had. That look was too predatory to miss. If it had been Grey Wind looking at me like that I would have started praying to the Seven for deliverance.

Lady Catelyn clucked her tongue. "Perhaps he didn't stare quite so…hungrily before, but he has been watching you. Did you not wonder why he sits through every single meeting with you? Even the meetings you have with washing women and cooks? Did you not notice that he takes every meal with you? When does he ever leave you alone, Your Grace?"

I thought about it and the last three weeks appeared to me in a different light. The night my husband had arrived I had been petrified by the realization that I would have to take up my wifely duties to him. I could barely eat, and though I had retired to our bedchamber alone I had spent most of that night lying woodenly in bed, waiting for him to come and claim his rights. I had fallen into troubled sleep only to wake and find it was morning. His side of the bed had been slept in and I had breathed easier for a little while. The tension had ratcheted up again as night had come, but again I went to bed before him and woke up long after he had gone. It had made me conclude that he was not interested in resuming conjugal relations and I had slept easy since.

But if Lady Catelyn was right, then what he had been doing felt suddenly sinister—like a wolf circling its unwitting prey. Most married people were together only at night, enjoying each other in bed before going their own separate ways in the day time. He had kept his distance during the nights but had edged closer when I hadn't been expecting him to.

"But he seems so serious when we're together!" I exclaimed, still quite unable to believe that I had spent so much time around a man who desired me and not noticed. "He's certainly never given me any inkling that he wants me that way—before tonight, that is."

Lady Catelyn raised a brow. "I wonder why, considering how well you respond to evidence of his desire."

I cringed. He had done his best to be considerate of me, it seemed, and I had repaid him by behaving like a dolt. Was he angry with me? Perhaps he was now so disgusted with my prudishness that he would lose interest in bedding me. I lost patience with myself when a small part of me was delighted by the possibility that he might have lost interest. Driving the king away because I was uncomfortable with the prospect of sex was not only foolish, it felt dishonorable. He had been promised a wife and all that such an acquisition entailed.

Releasing Lady Catelyn's hands, I rose to my feet. She stood as well, a smile on her mouth as I spoke.

"Forgive me for bothering you, Lady Catelyn," I said evenly, smoothing my hands over my dress. "I think I will retire now."

"To your room, Your Grace?" she clarified, a twinkle in her eyes.

"Yes, to my room," I laughed, blushing when I thought of the fact that I _had_ been doing my best to think up with an excuse to sleep in Lady Catelyn's room. "Thank you for your advice, Lady Catelyn."

I made my way to my room, my stomach fluttering with nerves. To my surprise—and surprisingly, to my disappointment—my husband was not inside when I arrived. Perhaps I had taken for granted that he would be there, considering how he had been looking. Then again, that was _before_ I had fled the great hall due to a simple look.

I changed into my nightclothes, furious with myself. I promised myself that I would never behave so disgracefully again. I went to bed alone, feeling for the first time that there was something very wrong with the fact that I did.

* * *

As it was, my behavior did not go unpunished—or rather, I saw the king's actions following that night as a punishment. I was not eager to go to bed with him, but I was certainly eager for it to be done with so that I would stop living in constant fear. If he sensed this, he did not indulge me. He did not claim his rights, but neither did he bother to conceal the fact that he was thinking about it.

He made it a point to touch me—not lasciviously, but coupled with those long, smoldering looks there was certainly suggestion in his actions. He would brush my hair away from my face in the middle of a perusal of ledgers, his fingers tracing the curve of my cheek in an unmistakable caress. He took my hand whenever we were walking, placed his arm around my waist during the rare moments when we were alone. I did my best to take his actions into stride, but it proved difficult when he took me aback so often. I had been reading a letter from Alys when he rested his chin on my shoulder to peep at the correspondence. I had started in surprise, my fingers inadvertently crumpling the parchment. He had murmured an apology but had remained leaning against me. It felt like he was playing with me and the days that dragged on seemed interminable.

The wait ended two weeks after the night of music.

I sat at my dressing table, fresh from a bath. It was early evening and the maids had shaken their heads at my insistence to wash. Winter was coming and it was sheer foolishness to bathe at night, when the air was even colder. But I had just finished my monthly bleeding and I felt filthy, so cold be damned. The hot water had been so soothing that I was now drowsy and I hurriedly squeezed as much water from my hair and began to brush through it briskly.

I was not halfway done when the door to our chamber opened and my husband stepped in. I saw him through the mirror and I paused, swallowing the lump that had lodged in my throat. He had never come to our chamber so early in the evening before. I lowered the brush, watching him warily as he approached. He stopped behind me, his hands coming to rest lightly on my shoulders.

"Remind me to find you a handmaiden," he murmured, lifting the heavy weight of my hair in his hands.

"I don't need one, Your Grace," I said immediately, wincing at how ungrateful I sounded. My nerves had been scraped raw over the last fortnight and they were working against me now. Hastily, I added, "I don't think I'd be comfortable with one, that is. I'm quite used to taking care of myself."

His eyes met mine in the mirror and the look in them was unsettlingly soft. "I know," he said with a small smile. "But you're getting one just the same. In the meantime, I don't mind playing lady's maid."

He reached for the brush and began to brush my hair. I saved myself the bother of protesting—he had a propensity for not listening. For a man so large and powerful, his hands were surprisingly light. The scrape of the bristles against my hair and scalp seemed more pleasant when someone else was doing it. I remembered the last time someone had brushed my hair for me—my wedding day. I tensed at the memory of what that day had culminated in.

"Your hair is like silk," he said softly, putting down the brush some minutes later. He combed his fingers down the length, which ended past my waist. Then he pushed it to the side so that it fell over one shoulder. His fingers began to knead the tense muscles of my back. He exerted more pressure when I made to stand up, clucking his tongue in a manner reminiscent of his mother. "Be still."

I bit my lip, closing my eyes and letting him have his way. If it didn't trouble me so, I would have lost myself completely in the wonder of his touch. His fingers found the muscles that had bunched up from stress, working at them until they loosened. I found myself tipping forward, leaning over the table as his warm hands slid lower down, his thumbs trailing the indentation of my spine.

I bit back a protest when a knock cut into the silence and my husband's hands stilled.

"Yes?" he boomed impatiently and I prayed that whoever it was would take the hint and go away.

Beric Dondarrion's voice came in clearly despite the thickness of the wood. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but a raven has come—from the Wall. Might I have a word?"

I lifted my head, struggling to find alertness. "From Jon?" I asked before I realized that I would have to yell it in order for Beric to hear me.

I looked up at my husband and found him contemplating me moodily. I wondered if he was weighing the urgency of the letter against what we both knew he had been building up to.

"I'll take care of this," my husband said quietly. He scooped me up in his arms and walked over to our bed, depositing me onto the furs. My mind flashed back to the last time he had done this and I was suddenly glad for Beric's interruption.

"Shall I wait for you, Your Grace?" I asked hesitantly when he remained leaning over me, his eyes cool and appraising. Could he sense my relief?

"No, my lady," he answered, pulling away and straightening. "Go to bed."

I watched him leave and went into my dreams wondering why he was suddenly withdrawn.

* * *

I dreamed about running in the woods. It was so dark that I knew that it would be impossible for me to see so clearly, yet I did not break my pace and my footing was sure. There was something running beside me. I turned my head to look and saw only two glints in the shadows. The moon broke through the trees and I saw him clearly, the great wolf that was my companion. I stumbled just as he pounced and then there was nothing but the soft snow and the solid mass of the creature that was about to consume me.

But it was skin that my hand dug into when I made to resist, not fur. I looked down and found myself staring at my husband, who was crouched over me much like the wolf in the dream. I gulped when I noticed that he was completely bare and he had apparently been working at bringing me to the same state. My nightdress was bunched around my waist and he had managed to slip the upper portion off my shoulders.

"I was wondering if you meant to join me," he whispered with an eerily wolfish grin, pressing his mouth onto one of my breasts. The tip had pebbled in the cold and at the searing touch of his mouth I felt a groan tear from my throat.

His low laughter rumbled over me as he moved to kiss the other breast. I bunched my fingers into the silky curls of his hair, trying to latch onto something as blankness invaded my mind with every kiss and nip.

"I thought…" The words died into a mewl as he cupped one firm globe and began to suckle like a babe. Sensation shot straight into my core, so overwhelming that it was frightening. I pushed his head away, reeling. "I thought you didn't want me to wait for you. You told me to go to bed." My voice was shaky to my own ears.

"So I did, my lady," he acceded. To my horrified astonishment his features moved in an expression that could only be classified as a leer. He shifted and I felt a familiar hardness pressing against my inner thigh. "You needed your rest for what I have planned for us tonight."

At that ominous pronouncement he lowered his mouth to my neck, his lips gliding and pressing until they found a sensitive place behind my ear that I had not been aware of before. I shuddered as he began to suck the tender skin. His hands began to rove over me and my breathing thickened. When he began to roll the tip of one of my breasts between his fingers I could not help making a fuss once more. I knew that I would die of embarrassment at my squeamishness come morning, but I was so undone that I didn't care.

"Wait!" I said frantically, arching away from him and trying to dislodge him.

He remained unmoving, though he did stop assaulting my neck. "What's wrong?"

"Why are you doing all this?" I asked incautiously. I had prepared myself for pain and discomfort. Not this frenzied madness that he seemed determined to stoke in me. "Can't you just finish it quickly? Like before?"

He frowned, brushing his knuckles tenderly over my cheek. "This time will be different. I want it to be different."

"There's no need," I persisted unwisely. "Just take me and be done with it, Your Grace."

His temper flared for the very first time. "Don't fight me on this, wife."

My back stiffened. He had never addressed me like that before. We had been married four months, but I had only known him for roughly one month if one put together the number of days that we were actually in each other's company. I was not prepared to take that tone from him, husband though he was. I leveled him with the chilliest look I could muster, the one that had always managed to stop people dead in the past.

Perhaps it was ineffective in bed, because his response was to kiss me. It was our first real kiss and it was like nothing I had expected. I squirmed, trying to pull away, but his mouth was hard and demanding and his hand was cupped firmly around my jaw. His free hand had gotten in between my legs and I gasped at the way he touched me. He took the opportunity to slip his tongue inside my mouth and I jumped a little as my belly knotted in pleasure. Terrified, I dug my fingers into his wrists and managed to wrench myself away.

I was able to crawl two feet across the bed before he was hauling me back up against him. When I struggled he pinned me with his weight and I panicked at the feeling of being crushed.

"Please," I gasped, "I can't breathe!"

"Then don't fight me. By the gods, wife, you didn't make half this much commotion the first time."

I shot him a baleful glare over my shoulder. "You weren't such a bother the first time."

He smirked, but it was mirthless. "The first time I was foolish enough to give in to someone who knows nothing about lovemaking. Now she's petrified by it when she should be eager for it." He nuzzled my ear. "I won't hurt you, sweet, I promise. Relax."

I stilled and barely bit back a sob of relief when the he eased himself off me a little. I did not have time to enjoy it because as soon as I had ceased wriggling he reached beneath me, his hand finding the place that he had been coaxing earlier on. My back arched, but this time there was no escaping him. His wicked fingers began to rub and stroke and soon there were breathy little moans flying from my throat. My hips began to buck against his hand as the coil in my gut tightened. All the while my serious, humorless husband whispered lewd, coarse praises and vulgar references to my anatomy into my ear that shocked a physical response from me. The coil snapped and my husband hushed my cries with his mouth as the ecstasy took me under.

I don't know how long it took me to float back down to my body. I was vaguely aware of my husband rolling me onto my back. I felt him ease the sweat-dampened fabric of my nightdress off my hips, saw a flutter of white dimly as he tossed it to the side of the bed. He parted my legs and leaned over me, his mouth finding my own. I kissed him back, following the movements of his lips instinctively. A low whine broke the kiss when I felt him push inside me at last.

There was a flicker of pain, but it gave way to a sense of delicious fullness as my body tried to accommodate him. His harsh breathing filled my ears and while I could only gasp as he began to move, he began to utter a mixture of curses and benedictions under his breath. He urged my hips higher against his, one hand bringing one of my legs over his waist. I wrapped my legs around him, getting the unspoken message, and he squeezed my bottom in approval. We moved together, slowly and carefully at first, until our bodies reached a point past grace, past care.

I clung to him mindlessly, inundated with pleasure. His arms steadied me, closing around me like a steel cage and pressing me against him. I could feel his heart thundering in his chest against my own as he took me to a place that I had never imagined, a place of pure sensation where my mind went dark and my body labored to keep up with his. We did not have far left to go—we fell off the precipice together, holding fast to one another as our passion laid us flat.

* * *

When reason finally emerged from the tangle of feelings I found myself lying atop my husband, swirling senseless things onto his chest. Beneath my fingers the sensitive muscles danced in reaction as I made whorls out of the crisp matting of his chest hair. His heartbeat and breathing were a steady thrum beneath my ear, lulling me even as his hands seemed determined to wake me, sliding over sensitive places that made my toes curl.

I had always scoffed at the thought that a woman needed a man to feel awakened, but I wondered now if some concession was necessary. I had never felt so physically aware in my life. Even the pains that I would have resented before felt welcome—the tenderness in the place between my thighs, the little scrapes along my neck and breasts caused by my husband's beard, the little bruises his fingers left on my thighs…they were reminders of what had taken place between us. This time, instead of the cold feeling of dread, the reminders started a little sizzle of heat in my belly.

A sizzle that my husband seemed determined to build. I lifted myself off him when his hands made to slide over my bottom. Undeterred, he followed me and rolled onto his side, one arm snaking around me and pulling me snugly against him. His hand crept over my bottom again but did not go further, as though he was content to feel its weight against his palm. The moonlight filtered into the room, limning his skin with silver. His eyes were bright points in the darkness, his expression watchful and intent. It felt cozy, letting him hold me so. Intimate. Close.

Except I didn't want closeness. Closeness was dangerous. After all, the last time I had been content to lie quietly in his arms he had spoken the name of another woman. I hadn't really cared then, but I had an alarming sense that if things went on this way I would care very much. And it would be very different if he said Jeyne Westerling's name then. I roused myself and pulled away from him again, ignoring his scowl.

"I just remembered that I was supposed to speak to one of the stonemasons about adding a few kilns to the kitchen," I said briskly, feeling around the floor for my dress. The stone was icy beneath my feet and I hopped a little as I moved about in search. My skin broke out in goose pimples as the cold air swept over the skin warmed by the furs and my husband's hard body. When I found my dress I felt frantically for the hemline so I could pull it over my head. "It isn't too late to go find him, I think. No reason for you not to sleep, of course, Your Grace. I'll be along in a while, so you mustn't wait up."

"Morgan."

I froze, my heart stopping in one hard thud. He had never called me by my name before. I had even wondered if he knew it, or if I was still just a Frey girl in his mind.

"Come back to bed," he growled. And then—softly—"Please."

I felt the garment slip from my fingers and I crept obediently back beneath the furs.

* * *

**Author's Note #2: **Okay, confession—this wasn't where this chapter was supposed to end. It was supposed to end on a more MILESTONE sort of milestone, not just Robb calling the Frey girl by her name. (On that note, thank you to all of those who sent their input about the name issue! I've never put so much thought into naming a character in my life! You would not believe how intense the discussion between me and my editors—i.e. friends who are forced to read the story and comment before I post it—was over this! Your reviews really helped settle the argument, so thank you so much!) But in light of the delay already caused by my little health crisis, I decided that it was better to post a new chapter now rather than put it off longer just so I could follow the original four-part plan. Also, this chapter was already 23 pages long. So that's the announcement—this story will now be longer than four parts! It'll be five or six chapters plus an epilogue. I hope that's good news for you guys, because starting from Chapter 4 I won't be able to update as regularly. I'm going out of town again next week and after that school starts up again. I really hope that doesn't put you off, because I am very determined to finish this fic as soon as possible without having to sacrifice quality. I promise that every update will be worth the wait, so don't give up on me!

There were a lot of complaints about this chapter from the editors. I hope you guys like it! If you do—or don't!—please let me know. On that note, here are my responses to those who left a review without logging in:

rikka21: I tried sending you a PM but it seems you've blocked that option, haha. Anyway, I know how you feel—Robb's the one who decided to break his word, so he's the one I'm mad at, not Jeyne. But Jeyne could have just said, "No, thank you!" to him when he wanted to marry her. Especially TVJeyne, who basically just threw herself at him. Anyway, thank you for leaving a review! darth wannabe: I want to know what you think of their second time, haha! Elaine and Elanor had a pretty good shot during the deliberation, but the Morgan votes won out. Thank you for leaving me feedback again! mrk010585: Maybe because Morgan is a tough woman's name? Not that Morgan was very tough in this chapter. Let me know what you think! Thank you! Ashley: Thank you so much! I caved to popular demand though, hahaha. fanofeverything and crazylilme: Thank you and I hope you like the update! Tim the Enchanter: I'm glad you like it! The early feedback from my editors was that their relationship came off as way too awkward to have any promise, but I got my way. Thank you again! Elle: The love scene in this chapter gave me a hard time—I didn't want it to be mushy. I hope you liked it! Thank you again! browneyes: First, I'm so sorry that it took me a while to update! I'm glad that you left two reviews, but I feel bad for making you doubt whether I'd continue this or not. Please don't worry—like I said earlier, I'm determined to finish this fic. It may take a bit longer than the one month goal I set for myself, but it will definitely be completed. I hope you liked how I introduced her name in this chapter. Thank you so much for your support! SirenaErmosa: Awww, thank you very much! I'm really glad it pleased you! I thought of your review when we were talking about how long this fic would be. I realized that if I tried to stick to the four-part plan most chapters would be really, really long and take forever for me to churn out. I mean, this one is 23 pages and covered four months of story time! I hope you stick around to see the other chapters! Welcome to the fandom! Nina: Thank you very much! It feels really good to hear that. I know, right? That's why I only read them once—my blood pressure shot up so many times in _A Game of Thrones_ alone! Hope you liked the update!

_**Next Chapter:** More Jon Snow, and all the things that were supposed to be in this chapter except it was already too long. _


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Robb Stark or any of the other characters created by George R. R. Martin. Neither do I have any claim over his work in _A Song of Ice and Fire_. I do not earn any profit from this.

**Author's Note:** Hello dear friends! Before anything else is said, I must say that I am very, very, VERY sorry that this update took months—and it isn't even exactly what I promised you. There are a host of reasons, but mainly I'm a working student in the middle of law school, so there's very little time for me to write in between work, studying, and extra-curricular activities. This past semester in particular was extra vicious, so what little time I did have to breathe was spent in recuperation.

Remember that milestone that I promised back in Chapter 2? It was supposed to be the ending for this chapter—but I can't seem to write it the way I want it, grrr! I've tried and tried, but it is just not cooperating. It's the bridge between this chapter and the next one (which is already half-written), but since it refuses to be built at this point I've decided to start with it in Chapter 5 and just recalibrate the grouping of events. I don't think any of you would have forgiven me if I'd waited until Christmas break to post this. So no dramatic cliffhanger in this chapter, I'm sad to say. And no Jon Snow (I'm really sorry!). I promise to make it up!

On a different (but equally important) note: This is a mature chapter. If you're very uncomfortable with sex as a topic, I don't think you'll be pleased with it. Fair warning!

Sorry again for the delay, and as always, responses to reviewers who weren't logged in are at the end of the chapter. Thank you, thank you, thank you again for your continuing support!

* * *

I discovered many things that night, and the days and nights after.

The first was that my husband was a rather wicked man once one managed to strip off the dour exterior of the King in the North. I suppose a part of me knew that he had been a boy once, as mischievous and incorrigible as most lads, but that boy had had to grow up. Lady Catelyn had once said that the day after Lord Eddard's execution she had gone looking for her son and found that the child he had been was simply nowhere to be found, and that in his place was a hard-faced, bitterly determined man.

I saw none of that man as I woke one morning to find my husband kissing me in a place that I never imagined a woman ought to be kissed. Before I could protest my body went up in flames, and it was a while before I realized that the light shining into my eyes was the cold light of dawn. The king kissed his way up to my mouth, and I started a little when it occurred to me that on his lips I tasted myself. He settled himself over me, around me, burying his fingers in my hair and setting about the task of trying to kiss me thoroughly. I shifted my face away, still disoriented from being so abruptly woken—and peeved as a result.

"Your Grace, do you not know how to wake someone in the ordinary fashion?" I asked faintly, the annoyed tone vanishing from my words as I looked into his face. He looked incredibly pleased.

And smug. "It seems like the only way to wake you is to make love to you," he answered with a smirk. "I'm happy to oblige, of course, Your Grace."

"Forgive me, it's been difficult to get some sleep of late," I shot back, the annoyance returning. He chuckled darkly and hitched my legs up on either side of his hips. I tried to scramble back but his grip on my waist was firm. I stared up at him, torn between astonishment, apprehension, and anticipation. "Your Grace, we spent all of last night doing this. Haven't you had enough?"

"Of this?" He slid inside me and we both groaned. His next words came out on a pleasure-filled hiss. "Never."

It was a strange time in my life, perhaps because I was never quite certain what to feel. The night my husband first made love to me—indeed, my mind is compelled to distinguish it from our first time together on our wedding night, when we had simply been married, not lovers—was almost entirely without rest. He had learned secrets about my body that even I had been unaware of, and we had delighted in the shared discovery until sleep refused to be kept at bay any longer. When I awoke the next morning, it had been to a feeling of strange well-being—a reluctant sort of happiness that I did not know what to do with. The expedient solution had been to simply lock it away, but it persisted as the days passed and the space between me and the king lessened.

The physical intimacy we gained had a profound effect on our relationship. The extent of it occurred to me one day as I prepared for a bath. A storm had lashed its way through the North and my husband had ridden out two days before with nearly a hundred men to see what could be done for the farms and villages nearby. Winterfell had held quite well under the onslaught of nature, the work we had begun almost five months before nearly complete. I had stayed behind with Beric and Lady Catelyn to attend to the few repairs necessary. Before my husband had left I had wished to accompany him, but as ravens arrived with reports from his bannermen I had seen the wisdom of staying. Some roads had been nearly washed out, familiar paths made impassable by trees felled by the wind and mires borne of the deluge.

The loneliness had caught me off guard, bringing forward the unease that had lingered even as I found growing elation in my husband's arms. After sharing a bed with him for almost two months—nearly one of which we had spent constantly intertwined—it felt unnatural to lie in bed alone. It had been difficult to fall asleep without the shelter of his body around mine, the brush of his hot breath against my hair. I had found some solace by sleeping on his pillow, hunting for his scent on the linen, but the sleep that came was shallow, and I awoke feeling like I had been afforded no rest. It was worse by the second night, and I found my temper sorely strained after the third.

There were words for the tumult that I was experiencing, this riot of mind and body against my husband's absence, but the only ones I knew were crude ones. I wondered if it meant that I was a vulgar woman, to be so at the mercy of desire that I was hardly myself. The smallest things upset me, and on the fourth day after the king's departure I confined myself to my room, trying to occupy myself with writing correspondence, mending, reading—anything that did not require me to interact with another person. I had done my best to keep my feelings contained, but it seemed to me that at any moment I might snap at someone—something I almost never did—and I knew that when even Lady Catelyn grated on me it was necessary to keep to my own company.

I sank into the bath, the scalding hot water doing nothing for the fire beneath my skin. I ran my hands over my arms, my breasts, the length of my thighs. There were slivers of sensation, but they were nothing to the response my husband's hands solicited. I tipped my head back, drumming my fingers against my belly, sighing at what a difference another's touch could make. I closed my eyes and tried to empty my mind.

The sound of the door opening jarred the quieting of my thoughts and I bit back another sigh. Tall painted screens shielded the bath from view and the heavy steam that rose from the water afforded me enough covering that the instinctive spurt of modesty inside me was quickly shushed. I reminded myself that the young serving girl my husband had brought in for me was not to blame for how I was feeling and it would be unkind and unfair to be sharp with her for doing her work. Still, as much as I was dissatisfied with my own touch, I did not want anyone but my husband's hands on me.

"It's all right, Lyla," I said as the soft footsteps approached. I was proud of the evenness of my tone. "I can wash myself. You may leave the toweling and go."

The footsteps did not falter. I straightened, eyes snapping open and more cutting words on my tongue, but the figure that stepped out from behind the screens was not my slight, shy handmaiden.

The king said nothing. I do not remember exactly what I had meant to say, or what exactly passed through my mind when I saw him. I do remember my knee knocking painfully against the edge of the copper bath as I scrambled up, the bite of cold air against my skin as I rose out of the water. I remember slipping, the feel of my husband's arms around me as he caught me against him, the breathless, dark little chuckle that rumbled through his chest before his mouth was on mine. He smelled like wet earth and sweat and horses but in my delirium I wondered if I could bottle up the scent so it would ever be at my disposal. I was shivering, my body running hot and cold as his hands—still gloved—caressed places that seemed to weep for his touch. The sharpness of our need was matched only by the sweet pain that was release, and in the aftermath it seemed like I would never have the strength to rise again.

But as the moments lengthened I became conscious of the unrelenting chill in the stone beneath me, which grew even cooler as the water that had splashed onto it frosted over. My husband was a welcome source of heat, particularly since he was still clothed in his cloak and furs, but it was no recompense for the cold radiating into my back. I tugged gently at the curls at the base of his nape, trying to lift his head off my chest.

"Robb?" I ventured, trying and failing to get onto my elbows. "Please, get up."

The leather of his glove scraped against my skin as he ran it up the length of my thigh to cup my bottom. I bit down on a squeak and slid my foot off his own bottom, where it had been resting in defiance of my brain's instructions. I planted it onto the floor to get some leverage as I dug both hands into his shoulders and tried to push him off me.

He huffed in laughter, rolling obligingly off me and onto his back, but his arms came around me so that I rolled with him. My bones sighed with relief but the cold worsened and I squirmed in vain before I collapsed onto his chest.

"Robb, I'm wet," I pointed out plaintively, half a second before I realized how the words would be taken. True to form, he slid his hand into my hair and tugged my head back so he could look at me, the leering grin I had come to be familiar with spreading across his face.

"Are you, wife?" he purred, stroking my nape. "And how might I help you with that?"

I buried an elbow into his ribs, making him cough, and I reared off him, clutching at the rim of the bath for support when my knees buckled. He let me go more out of surprise than pain, which annoyed me somewhat since, the brief "Ooph!" aside, he did not stop laughing. He sat up as I gave him a narrow-eyed stare.

"You interrupted my bath," I said sourly, as it occurred to me how I had behaved. I clambered carefully back into the water, peering resentfully over the side at him where he sat on the floor. Considering his unrepentant, self-satisfied grin, I was certain that I would never hear the end of it.

He rolled to his feet in a singularly graceful move that made it difficult to remain annoyed with him. He tugged one glove off, swirling his hand in the water an inch away from my breasts. I swatted at it.

"The water's still hot," he commented, withdrawing his hand. "No reason to complain, wife."

"Well, you finished rather quickly, didn't you?" I said unwisely, turning my embarrassment onto him.

One strong brow arched towards his hairline. "Is _that_ what you're complaining about?" he asked, amusement gone. He tugged off his other glove. "Well then, my lady, prepare for some company."

I consoled myself with the fact that the servants did not need to take care of the tedious task of emptying the bath. One of the lovely painted screens had been permanently damaged by water, unfortunately, and I hid under the covers and feigned sleep as the maids who had been tasked to mop the floor and replace the rushes giggled about their tasks.

My husband did not need to feign weariness. After the servants had gone and I had the courage to creep out from under the furs I saw that the days we had been apart had been harder on him than they had been on me. I traced the shadows under his eyes, rubbed gently at the imprint of a frown that had marred his brow. His mouth, at least, was relaxed, his lips slightly parted to allow a soft purr to escape. Or was that purring sound me?

I curled into him, and as his arms came around me—deep in his dreams as he seemed to be—I found the first real sleep in days.

* * *

For the first time in a long time I did not wake to my husband's scalding kisses. When I opened my eyes I found that neither of us had really moved in the night, and that my husband was still slumbering. It was difficult to tell the time even if some discreet servant had come in to open the shutters, since daytime was now composed of minute variations of gray and gloom. But if someone had already come into the room, it was likely that both my husband and I had slept past the expected hour.

"Robb?" I whispered, stroking a finger over his bottom lip. His hot breath puffed against my hand and I felt a curl of wanting in my belly that made me forget about why we ought to be out of bed. I stared at him as he continued to dream and realized that this was my chance to experience something only he had enjoyed thus far.

I moved the leg I had hitched over his hips off him, folded my arms between us and pushed him slightly. He rolled onto his back with only the slightest of grumbles, and I stifled the urge to squeak when his arms—still around me—tightened, rolling along with him so that I was on top. I grinned, since he'd managed to position me perfectly, and I lowered my mouth to his throat.

It was different, tasting my husband's skin at my leisure. The salt, the heat of him, the smell of spice and musk—when we made love I was often too overcome with passion to separate the sensations into parts. This was my first opportunity to savor him, since often when we came together we hurried each other to the finish.

The only thing I knew about love-making was what the king had taught me, and so I did the things he did to please me. I licked and nipped, scraping my teeth over the manly protrusion in his throat. His breathing roughened ever so slightly, and I slid my hands under his night shirt and over the hard planes of his body, delighting in the way the muscles jumped reflexively under my touch. I pushed the fabric as high up as it would go and pressed my mouth onto the exposed flesh.

As I dipped my tongue into his navel I heard him gasp, and I gloried in the sound. I could feel the heat of him against my breasts, bent over him as I was, and as I shifted over him so that I could pull down the confines of his trousers I felt his hips buck slightly. I understood then, why Robb was so determined to wake me with lovemaking every morning. I found I could not decide which was more pleasurable: making love to someone or being made love to. It was a heady feeling, pushing someone to higher peaks of desire and fulfillment.

Even so, I felt a flutter of nervousness as I pulled the fabric down and set that part of him free. Then my gut clenched when my gaze skittered upwards and I saw him watching me. His eyes were like slits of stormy blue, their color heightened by the flush that filled the sharp blades that were his cheeks. His chest was rising and falling in rapid breaths and I saw that his hands were bunched in the sheets. I waited for him to speak, to move—to do anything—but he only groaned when I timidly wrapped my hand around him.

Yet when I touched him with my tongue he cursed so viciously that I pulled away, embarrassed and frightened. His hands clamped around my arms, stilling me before I could rear back completely. At first look I was convinced he was angry—and since he spoke through all but gritted teeth it took more than a few moments for me to realize that he was not.

"Please, Morgan," he bit out. "I need you."

When I understood what he meant I was clumsy in my eagerness to do as he asked. But the desire that burned through both of us only cared that the need be met, and I pushed down onto him greedily, anchoring my hands in his thighs and driving us to our peak, spurred on by his bucking body and his hoarse—and coarse—exclamations of pleasure.

It was noon when we left our chambers, and I could not decide if I wanted every day to start as this one had, or if I never wanted to do the things we did again. My body was still humming from our earlier activities, but my mind was whirring frantically by the time we were seated by each other at our table in the great hall. I found myself glancing almost sharply at the faces of those who were nearby: the servants who set the dishes before us, those seated at our table (Beric, Maester Osmund, Lady Catelyn, a Karstark cousin who was visiting), and even those who were taking their meals in the other tables. When nothing seemed amiss my mind quieted in relief, and I happily allowed my husband to fill my plate, secure in the belief that I would be able to eat in peace.

And then—

"You look remarkably restored, Your Grace," the Maester commented just as I spooned some egg into my mouth, and while I was not looking at him I heard the laughter in his voice and I felt my spine stiffen.

"Yes, she does, does she not?" my husband concurred, confirming my suspicion. My eyes shot to the Maester and I found him looking at me—clearly his first remark had not been intended for my husband. I felt the heat gather in my face as I heard the nearby chortles. He was a good man, but his manners would never count in his favor and my husband did little to correct him. I slanted a look at the king and struggled to keep my expression smooth when I saw he was grinning at me in a way that only a man could.

The passion we shared was not secret. As in most households, gossip was a favored pasttime for servants, soldiers, and highborns alike, and the night after we'd first made love more than my relationship with the king had changed. No one was as blunt as Maester Osmund, but somehow I had noticed that it seemed everyone in the keep was aware of what had transpired between my husband and me. It was the small things—the knowing, almost congratulatory looks they had given me as I left our chambers following that night; the eager, almost expectant way they watched us in the days that followed; and worst of all the whispering and tittering that floated in the air around us and always seemed to die away the moment my head whipped around.

It did not help that my husband did little to be discreet. Those first few weeks after that night I had learned to dodge him during the day because he was forever backing me into corners, demanding his rights from me in the most inappropriate places and times. My refusals seemed to amuse him and only served to spur further attempts. After a meeting with Beric and Maester Osmund he had managed to pin me onto a table, dislodging a great many important documents and making me curse my diminutive size. When the Maester had suddenly returned, having forgotten something, all the king had done was laugh and ask him to shut the door. At the Maester's conspiratorial wink and encouraging leer I'd lost my temper—perhaps the first time I ever had with my husband—and had managed to bring my knee up against my husband in exactly the right place. I had expected him to be furious, but his response—other than a grunt of pain—had been something akin to admiration. When he had breath enough to speak he had teased me about how he liked it when I played coy.

I had been instantly offended. I never envisioned myself as the sort of woman who played coy. It wasn't that I found my husband's overtures repulsive, but neither was I comfortable with him extending them so openly. The king had a way of catching me off guard, and when I was rattled it had always been my response to strive all the more doggedly for control. He took a roguish delight in this, and for a while it felt as though our days were spent with him toying with me until the prim, calm exterior I had lived with all my life cracked and I was sniping at him in frustration. It was a wonder that any of our tasks got done.

There was only one kind of rejection that my husband did not accept with good humor. I had been in the ladies' sitting room with Lady Catelyn and several other ladies, setting about the task of making warmer clothing for the coming winter. Furs and heavy material lay about the spacious solar and as I did my best to do justice to the rich fabric and the poor animal who'd been divested of its pelt I thought of Alys and her nimble fingers, experiencing once again the sharp pang of melancholy that still descended upon me now and then.

My husband had walked in, declaring it was time for our noontime meal. We had risen out of respect and at his announcement my companions had made to file out, even Lady Catelyn not stopping save to give her son a reproving look. I found myself smiling at the gesture. King though he was, Robb had clearly spent the better part of the morning out on the practice yard with his soldiers and he was filthy with sweat and mud—and careless of getting any of the fine things in the room dirty as he strode toward me.

He had pulled me close, his mouth descending to mine, and I had turned my head so sharply that our heads almost collided awkwardly. My eyes had been on the ladies who were casting discreet glances at us as they left the room, but I should have been looking at my husband. When I had turned back to him after the distinct closing of the door I found he had straightened and was looking at me with ill-concealed fury.

"And what, my lady," he had asked in a quiet, dangerous voice I had never heard before, "was the point of that little display?"

"D-Display?" I'd repeated nervously, unnerved by the anger in his face. "What do you mean, Your Grace?"

"Are you trying to bait me? Why did you not let me kiss you?"

His sharp directness had thrown me, and though now I look on that moment with fondness and the warm feeling that comes from being flattered, at the time I was only conscious of feeling alarm—and defensiveness. "You know why," I had said shortly, rallying my courage and trying to give him the stern look I'd often seen Lady Catelyn give.

"If I did," Robb had said in that awful, quiet tone that still seemed to make every word feel like a whiplash—and proving to me at that very moment that I would never get anywhere by trying to behave like his mother—"I wouldn't ask, now would I? Now, explain yourself."

"Perhaps I didn't want to be kissed at that very moment, Your Grace."

"Liar." He took a step towards me as though to prove it. "You've tolerated my tongue shoved into your mouth well enough before."

The sudden outburst of crudeness had stunned me—and had given me refuge in anger. "Why must you drag this out? Surely you were taught that doing such things in the company of others is rude and unbecoming."

"Considering that the others you refer to go out of their way to catch us, I don't think they really mind."

"That isn't the point, Your Grace, and you know it. Simply because others don't mind or even delight in such missteps does not make such behavior any less improper."

And then he had taken it too far. "_This,_ from Walder Frey's daughter?"

It was one of the rare times in my life that I had actually seen red. "And what is _that_ supposed to mean?" I had hissed, though I knew exactly what he had meant. "How dare you?"

"Do you really think they don't know what we do together?" he had asked me derisively, shifting the focus of his attack. "Do you really believe that they don't know what we've been up to when you have difficulty walking in the mornings or when they hear your wails all the way to the rafters?"

"You are a great big _lecher_ of a man!" I had snapped, furious and humiliated. "No, I should sooner call you a boy for all the self-control you have! Isn't it enough that I yield to you every night? You may have your rights to my body, Your Grace, but that does not mean you may paw at me as you please, even if I am Walder Frey's daughter!"

I had seen the instant when _I_ had gone too far. The fire in his eyes gave way to ice, and no sooner had the words left my mouth that I had the urge to bite off my tongue.

"Very well," he had said coldly. "Forgive my eagerness for your mouth, wife, but rest assured that all taste for it has fled now."

And then he had turned on his heel, leaving me alone in the solar.

I had stood rooted to the floor for what had seemed like an age, trying repeatedly to achieve equilibrium. When I had at last mastered myself enough and gone down to the great hall, I was told that the king had had but two bites before he had left. A part of me had been relieved that I did not have to see him yet, when we were both still furious with one another, but a greater part was consumed with worry. I barely ate, and as a result I had been starving by the time it was time for dinner. Hunger was not what brought me down to the great hall with haste that evening, however.

The king had not sought me out for the rest of that day. The discussion in the solar had been our first real quarrel, and I had no idea how to set things right. I had wanted to apologize, as the afternoon had worn on and I had come to see my actions with embarrassment, but the king had been nowhere to be found. I had sent Lyla to look for him, but she had returned only to tell me that the king had ridden out with a small company of men, without leaving word as to where he meant to go. Inwardly I had gone into a panic, but after a brief discussion with the cooks and storage managers I was assured that the king had not left for a long journey.

But when I had reached the great hall that evening, it was clear to me that the king had yet to return. If I had managed to convince the people around me that this did not bother me, it was difficult to make light of it when I had climbed up to our chambers alone. I had slipped into a fitful sleep, awakened only when my husband's weight settled beside me.

Though I had spent the better part of the day rehearsing my apology and wishing he would return, at that moment I found that I had not the courage to open my eyes and speak to him. I had simply lain quiet, listening to his breathing and finding that it did not lack the deep, quiet sound of sleep. Not for the first time that day I had cursed myself for the things I had said to him and what I had done. There had been no real reason for us to fight but things between us had become ugly so quickly that I had barely been able to comprehend the change.

And then his voice had broken into my misery. "May I kiss you now?"

I had barely whispered "yes" before his mouth was on mine, and though at first felt that I had conceded something to him that night, his subsequent behavior led me to believe otherwise. While he still looked at me like something he would like to devour, he ceased making attempts to do so, and save for a few leering comments whispered into my ear now and then, I had begun to think that my husband had seen my point.

He undid that presumption now, as his hand came to rest familiarly over my rump. I leveled the coldest look I could muster on him, but he again proved that expression ineffective by squeezing my flesh and winking.

My appetite evaporated, and I set down my spoon with as much dignity as I could and stood. I winced inwardly when everyone else rose respectfully as I excused myself and lied about feeling unwell, but that feeling went just as quickly when I heard someone laughingly whisper that I'd either didn't get enough or had too much. I didn't have to look back to see that my husband was following me. It was all I could do not to dash away or slam the door in his face as I walked back into our chambers with him at my heels.

"Morgan," he started in a voice that failed miserably at being placating because he was clearly still too close to open laughter.

"Spare me," I cut in coolly, resisting the urge to fling the nearest heavy object at him.

"You are making a great deal out of nothing," the king went on regardless, his smiling countenance not managing to buffer the hurt from having my feelings dismissed.

"Am I?" Between the stupid urge to cry and the pressing urge to do him bodily harm I managed to force myself into a state of calm. "We've spoken about this," I said quietly, "and you know how much it upsets me but you are determined to be difficult on this point, Your Grace."

The humor faded from his eyes and mouth and his voice matched mine in its seriousness. "Remind me of this conversation, my lady, it seems to have slipped my mind."

My mouth dropped open slightly. "You don't remember us quarreling about you kissing me when others are around?"

"I would hardly call that a conversation. It was a silly argument, and apart from insulting one another and hurting each other I do not recall anything being settled between us."

"It may have gone too far, but it was not a silly argument for me. Robb, before that day I spent most of my time rolling out from under you every time you decided to pounce on me."

His expression turned frosty. "What do you want me to say? Acknowledge that my wife is a prude?"

Tears stung at my eyes with a sudden viciousness that I lowered my gaze. I had only been called that once before, by another man who was as important to me as this one. What was I doing, complaining to my husband like this? Had I not promised him—and myself—that I would be the best of wives to him? I had had an idea of what our marriage was going to be like, and what my part in it would be, but sometime in the two months we had spent getting closer I had forgotten myself. Blinking the tears back slowly, I cleared my throat so that I could apologize.

He pre-empted me by placing his arms around me. I stiffened, because the tears threatened with renewed force, and the only way to beat them back was to feel angry. I tried to step back, but Robb held me fast and tried to kiss me. I turned my face away, ready to get into another argument about not letting him kiss me, but he surprised me by laughing softly and settling for a new target.

"Morgan," he murmured, nuzzling my neck in the spot that made my knees buckle, unprincipled cheat that he was. I swayed against him, my hands clutching at his shoulders as he employed the strategy of placation through seduction—something I had scoffed at as insulting and improbable to work on me until I had been married to him. "My wife, do you not enjoy my attentions?"

"You know I do," I grumbled, biting down on a mewl as he bit me, scraping his teeth lightly over the sensitive point. "But Robb you..." I lost the thread of my own thoughts when he suckled that tender point and I clutched at him even as my mind flailed desperately to recover what I had meant to say. "Robb, it isn't proper."

"It isn't proper to let people know that I want my wife?" My dress sagged and I realized that he had undone its lacings. His hands smoothed over the chills that chased over my back, making me arch. He continued to speak into my ear as he stripped me and brought me even closer against his hard body. "I confess that my mother's lessons about propriety have not been forgotten. But when I see you—" his hands cupped my breasts—"I find I cannot make myself care. And after not seeing you for the last few days, propriety is even less of a concern. I missed you sorely, Morgan."

Hideous man. The tears finally spilled even as a strange, mindless panic gripped me. Did he want me to admit that I had missed him as well? But had that not been abundantly clear when I had all but leapt on him when he had arrived?

"Don't cry." His lips brushed over my tears.

"_You made me,"_ I whispered furiously, glaring up at him.

There was something different about the way he was looking at me. His eyes were soft and serious, but his lips had curved into a mischievous smile. "Then I will make amends."

He sank to his knees before me, surprising me, and I clutched at his shoulders as he began to press kisses over my belly, his hands circling my hips.

"It is a very good thing," he teased between kisses, "that you were in your chambers when I arrived. If I'd found you in the hallway, I don't think you would ever have forgiven me."

"You wouldn't," I said weakly, the stern disapproval in my voice burning away when I felt his tongue dip into my navel and his mouth trailed lower.

He pulled back, a wicked gleam in his eye. "Is that a challenge, wife?"

I looked down at him, and whether it was fear or some manner of trust that finally forced it out I do not recall, but I quietly gave voice to the troubled thoughts that had haunted my mind whenever I felt that my husband was trying to make a spectacle of us. "Is it really so enjoyable, letting everyone see what you can do to me?"

It was the oddest thing, but I saw from his expression that he understood in an instant. If he had been unable to see my point of view before, everything fell perfectly into place with that one question. There was no need for me to explain that my father—and other lords like him—had come to mind. Most women were objects to them, things to be used for pleasure and badges of their virility. My father, as much as I loved him, had no real respect for women save for a handful of his own kin, and even then he had been convinced that the gods had meant these rare exceptions (myself included) to be men. If my father's penchant for young girls were not scandalous enough, he gave no real thought to the conventions he flouted when he met such urges whenever and wherever he pleased. If we caught him with another young woman in the stairwell, or in the stables, or wherever he happened to be, he seemed to expect praise rather than censure. Daughters—or at least _this_ daughter—got away with walking on by and a hearing only a muttered curse on said girl's prudishness, but my father expected his sons to leer and cheer—and fawned on those that did. That my father declared almost all my brothers to be disappointments is a twisted testament, I suppose, to my brothers' principles.

Of course, my husband could not be expected to know such things. Most people expected us to be inured to vulgarity, or to be vulgar ourselves, considering our parentage. Even my husband had apparently harbored such a thought. As I saw his grave, contrite face I knew we were thinking of the words he had said before: _"This_, from Walder Frey's daughter?"

Yet he understood now, and I did not even have to tell him about what it had been like, catching my father with a girl even younger than me, seeing her frozen expression as my father did not stop what he had been doing. He had simply grinned at me and told me that I would have another sibling on the way.

"I wish you had been franker with me before, wife," Robb said gruffly, and I yelped when he pulled me down so that I was straddling his lap. "To think you have been comparing me to your father all this time! I would ask you to forgive me, but I find it difficult to accept that I have anything in common with that old goat."

He was so disgruntled that I let him refer to my father as he did.

"I'm sorry," I said meekly. I gave him a watery smile. "I know I shouldn't be so upset when you do those things, but I've always been a prude. I-I promise I'll try to change, Robb."

Robb's response was an exasperated sigh. "I was wrong to call you a prude before. I'm sorry. I said it to hurt you, but if you think about it, I've always enjoyed your prudishness—if it can be called that."

"You said I was playing coy." It was still insulting.

"And I knew it would annoy you because you weren't playing." His expression softened and he gave me a brief, hard kiss. "I have never enjoyed playing games with people's feelings, wife, but something about you makes you a delight to tease."

"So you've only been teasing me all this time? You would never actually have followed through all those times before?"

"Are you disappointed?" At my affronted stare he burst out laughing. "You make it _too _easy."

"Robb!" I hissed indignantly. "Answer the question!"

He sobered slightly. "Did I really intend to make love to you publicly all those times? In truth, I don't know. But I wasn't pretending to desire you, and I didn't do those things in those places because I wanted us to have an audience."

"No?" I asked hopefully, mesmerized by the tender gravity in his tone.

"No. As much pride as I take in you, Morgan," he said gently, stroking my nape soothingly, "if I cannot keep my hands off you it is not because I am trying to flaunt you _or_ myself. The simple truth is that the nights are too short for me to have my fill of you and the days are too long for me to wait patiently. As you once said, it seems I _am_ a boy for all the self-control I have—when it comes to you."

I bit my lip, frowning at the reminder of my harsh words. "I didn't mean what I said then."

He lifted his brows and grinned at me mischievously. "Neither did I mean it when I called you a prude. But you enjoyed throwing it in my face the way I did your insult."

"_I did not—"_ I thumped my fists against his chest when he started to laugh again. "When I learn how to tease you back, you'd best be ready, Your Grace."

"I look forward to it, Your Grace," Robb shot back, smothering any further threats with his mouth.

* * *

As it happened, it did not take me very long to come up with a way to tease my husband back. We spent the rest of that day in our chambers. Despite my protests, Robb ordered that we be left alone, save for the meals that were brought up. When the next morning came I was deliciously sore everywhere, resigned to the teasing that was bound to come after I stepped outside our door, and desperate for a way to get some of my own back from Robb.

It took us a while to dress because Robb took it upon himself to wash me, lingering to press a kiss here and there. By the time he was helping me put on my dress I saw his eyes were smoky with want, and that he would rather be helping me take the garment off. But we both knew there were important tasks that could not afford to be put off much longer, and I knew at that moment how I would get my revenge.

"Robb," I said timidly as we stepped outside.

"Hmmm?" He turned towards me, his eyes distant now, not desirous. Clearly his mind was already on the matters ahead.

I kissed him, and for all its effect it was as though I had punched my poor husband in the gut. He took a step back, bringing me with him because I had wound my arms around his neck, and groaned when I took advantage of his sharp intake of breath by slipping my tongue into his mouth. His arms locked around me so tightly I thought my ribs would crack—and then he pulled back so abruptly that I might have tumbled to the floor if he was not holding me so securely.

"To tide you over until tonight," I said with a smile, finding his astonished expression highly pleasing.

He narrowed his eyes at me, one hand sliding down to pinch my bottom. "Or rather, to keep me hard until you see fit to tend to me, you mean," he growled. "You saucy little wench."

There was a cough of laughter and we turned to see that Lady Catelyn and Beric were standing nearby. I reared away from my husband in shock, but he held me fast and grinned at our two witnesses.

"Once more," he whispered, and before I could protest he was kissing me as fiercely as I had been kissing him, except that he seemed to know much more about it than I did. At least my husband had held his footing when I had kissed him—I all but melted against him as he shifted his lips restlessly over my own, courting my tongue and suckling on it when I gave. When I moaned he pulled back, and I found that he had all but bent me over his arm.

He set me back on my feet, steadying me by my shoulders when it seemed I might fall over, before he turned to the two who had come to see us. Lady Catelyn tutted us like we were still children, but I could see that she was pleased. Beric made no attempt to hide his amusement, clapping Robb familiarly on the back as my husband started forward, not looking back at me once.

The rest of that day dragged on as my revenge turned against me and I began to think longingly of the night that was to come. I had once thought that lust was a thing that could easily be dealt with—once sated one could move on to other things. But it seemed that with my husband each time we met our needs I only became more insatiable.

I reflected on this when night had finally come and we had come together again. As I lay in his arms, content to have him stroke my back and listen to his voice as he told me about what he had done that day, I had the distinct impression that what I was feeling was no longer simply lust. It was a sinking feeling that Robb seemed to pick up on, because halfway through his worries about how ravens were no longer reaching their proper destinations he stopped to ask me what was wrong.

I kissed him, desperate not to answer and desperate for the sadness to go away. He followed my lead, and if he did not think that I simply wanted to make love again he said nothing about it. There was no more talk between us that night, and when morning came I found the strength to dismiss what I had felt—much like any child belittling shadows in the bright of day.

The sense of foreboding and unease that our lovemaking had pushed away that night bore fruit several weeks later, when—contrary to my husband's fear that we would have to send out riders to get any word out—a raven arrived from King's Landing.

* * *

**Author's Note #2:** Usually I answer chronologically, but there are a few special mentions because you guys have been so dedicated—

SirenaErmosa**: **PLEASE MAKE AN ACCOUNT HERE SO I CAN PM YOU ALL MY LOVE. You are an awesome reader and I am really, really glad you like my story. Every time you left me a review for Chapter 3 alone (did you post four or five?) I felt both guilty for not updating and really pleased that you haven't forgotten me. Thank you so much, darling! It's been a tough couple of months, but seeing your reviews made every day better. I hope you like this update—I was going to hold off posting it, and then I saw your last review and said, "No, no more waiting."

Nina/Guest: I'm really flattered that you would make an account just to get my updates—thank you! I hope this update makes your day again.

_And_, SuziQ22: Here it is! Thank you so much for checking up on the story as much as you did—it was really motivating! I hope you like it even if it wasn't what I said I'd put in.

Also, before anything else is said, I want to thank all of you who asked about my health following that dreadful dye incident. I can't dye my hair ever again now since my doctor thinks it's too risky (even if I never had a reaction before), but at least my hair and scalp are healthy again. May such a thing never happen to anyone else!

mrk010585: I wonder how you'll feel about Robb after this chapter, haha! Let me know! rikka21: Thank you again! I hope I can send you pms now, because when I tried to send one to you again way back in June, I couldn't yet. Please let me know what you think of this update, thank you! browneyes: Thank you so much! I hope you still like Morgan after this chapter. There was a lot of discussion about how her character was changing/developing (yes, still with my evil editors, haha) and I don't know if she'll still be as appealing. Please let me know! Rachel: I don't want to spoil it, haha! You'll see in the next chapter! Thank you for reviewing, and please stick around until then! I'd love to hear what you think about this update. Delphine862: I'm sorry this chapter is only half the length of the last one! And I'm really sorry that Jon isn't in this one yet! I promise he will be in Chapter 5 A LOT. And yes, the long-awaited Jon and Morgan with Robb there will also be in it! I'm really glad you like how I wrote Robb—there's plenty of red-blooded male in him here, so I pared back a little in Chapter 5—but I won't spoil it for you, haha. Thank you again! Elle: Well, _this_ chapter was mushy, I'm sure! I hope that's still okay, haha. And as to Jon/Morgan—wait and see, hahaha! Thank you again, and I hope you see this update soon! Anna: When I first read your review I actually blushed! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I hope to hear from you again soon! Sara: Ooh, I hope you're still reading this! Thank you for leaving me a note, and I hope you like this update. yaz216: Hahahahaha, I don't know how you guessed that was coming, but I'm glad to fulfill your wish! Thank you! Tsuki: Nothing really exciting in this chapter, but it may get a bit outlandish in the next one—I hope it won't, though. Thank you for leaving me a review, and I hope you like this! Lisa: Thank you, thank you! I hope you like the update! Anon: I did, haha! Thank you very much!

I hope I didn't miss anyone—if I didn't reply to you, do let me know. I know I hate it when I don't get replies, haha. THANK YOU GUYS, BLESS YOU ALL!

_**Next Chapter:** More Jon Snow (for real this time), the milestone (I'm really serious about it now), and no more mushiness. Well, a little, but in case you guys were wondering, the inspiration for Chapter 5 was Gotye's "Somebody That I Used to Know"—at least the Walk Off the Earth version, haha. Make of that what you will._


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Robb Stark or any of the other characters created by George R. R. Martin. Neither do I have any claim over his work in _A Song of Ice and Fire_. I do not earn any profit from this.

**Author's Note:** Hello friends! You're probably tired of hearing it, but I'm very sorry for the delay. This was supposed to go up last Christmas as a present to you all, but you know how real life gets. Then it was supposed to be a Valentine's Day gift, but then term started wrapping up, and before I knew it I was bogged down with cases and exams. I won't make any more excuses, but rest assured that I will endeavor to improve my update time. This chapter in particular was difficult to write. This was originally the bridge to Chapter 5, but it spawned a completely separate chapter as I was writing it, and Chapter 5 had to be moved to Chapter 6.

A few things my editors said about this chapter made me feel like it's necessary to remind everyone that this story is a romance. I don't pretend that it's supposed to be the grand narrative that is GRRM's work, so if you get annoyed by the politics or the peripheral events taking place in this story, just remember that it's AU—it's what I wished took place in the books. Remember that Morgan occupies a sphere outside of the mainly political struggle in the story, and that she's an outsider to much of what actually took place.

On a different note, THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO VOTED MORGAN AS BEST ORIGINAL CHARACTER in the last GAME OF THRONES FANFICTION AWARDS! I am incredibly pleased, even months later, and I really hope this chapter doesn't blow it.

As usual, responses at the end of the chapter for those of you who weren't logged on when you reviewed. Hope you like the update! [And yes, I _did_ decide to post it on the heels of this season's Episode 9: _The Rains of Castamere._ I don't know if this story will make you feel better or worse.]

* * *

People tell stories about winter, particularly in the North. Even as a child growing up in the Twins I had been regaled by elders about the horrors of the Long Night. Where I had grown up the story tellers had lingered on tales involving creatures that only came with the snow, of gnawing hunger than only abated with the cool bliss of death, of madness and darkness that only a child's vivid imagination could conjure. It was no different in Winterfell as the days sped by. People told stories about winter almost as though they were summoning it, daring it to come. I didn't speak to anyone about the anxiety it caused me, having to hear the stories when I knew we would be facing the frozen dread soon enough. Robb sensed my unease—he was never too far from reach, his warm mouth ready to share comfort, his large hands eager to sooth my fears. But if he shared in my growing terror, he kept it to himself.

For all their tales, the storytellers never spoke about _how_ winter came. It seemed to creep upon us, slowly yet inexorably, and the day before it fell upon us the storytellers fell silent.

I knew winter had come the moment my eyes opened one day and I found Robb gone. The light in the room was a permutation of blue and gray that I had only ever seen at twilight, softened only by the blaze in our hearth that someone had built high for my benefit. Wrapped in bedclothes and furs though I was I felt the bite in the air and fought against the wave of panic that caused my insides to turn. I closed my eyes, sending a prayer to the gods that whatever this winter would cost us, we would live through it.

Then I sat up, my mind already reaching for the lists I had memorized of things that needed doing on this day. Gritting my teeth, I pulled myself from the comfort of our bed and felt a shudder wrack through my body as the gnawing cold washed over me. It seemed impossible that only a week before I had been musing that the chill of the North was something I had become acclimated to.

Lyla, blessed girl, had already laid out what I was to wear. Even as the shivers worsened I stripped to the skin, clambering into the heavy garments with every haste and not even a sliver of grace. Taking a deep breath and trying to stop my teeth from chattering, I stepped closer to the fire, noting that some thoughtful soul had set a table by it, close enough so that the items atop it were not ruined before I could enjoy them. Not that one necessarily enjoys mealy gruel, bland bread, and hard cheese—the palatability of food was something I would soon stop caring about—but I was so anxious that I barely tasted what I was consuming. I finished what I had been given because I knew I would need it, but it wasn't until I touched the small flask to my lips and tasted mulled wine that I found a measure of strength as heat poured into me and filtered through. I made myself stop after a few sips, knowing I would need more before the day was done. As I stretched to my feet I wondered absently if I would be a drunk before summer returned.

There wouldn't be time to be that, of course. I had once thought that winter meant sitting in one's keep and enduring until the world thawed, but that had been a child's ignorance. I had been very little when last winter came, and did not remember it. There were people to be tended to, supplies to be rationed, decisions to be made. Again I saw a strange fortuitousness in that Winterfell had been remade, for I could not imagine how the old keep could have accommodated the multitudes who flocked to their king's keep, driven from their lands by the snow and the wind. Riding parties were sent out to see to those who had not come, to make certain that they truly preferred to stay where they were. More often than not the parties came back with a procession of frightened families, bringing whatever they could bear. The snow was not so heavy in the first few days, but the wind whipped about in a frenzy that promised worse to come.

When the wind quieted the snow fell in great masses, and no more parties rode out. After a lengthy debate it was decided that ravens would be sent out to only the closest lords, and those lords would be tasked with sending ravens to their other closest neighbors, and so on. Word would spread down the tree and back up, and I saw that Robb did his best to hide his frustration as he comprehended how much time it would take to know how those in his care—all the people of the North—were faring. But it was the surer way, making certain that the flights were short so that the birds were not taxed, and any bleak emotions the king might have felt were kept from the hearty words he placed in the letters he sent.

We saw little of each other during those first few days, and when we curled against each other in the nights we were too exhausted to do anything but sleep. Still, in the few moments before my dreams came I knew a degree of peace as his arms closed around me and we held to one another against the cold and the darkness.

After the first week I began to believe that I had found my bearings again, as we settled into a routine and my mind and body became reconciled to the truth that winter was over us. We had assigned each member of the household to specific tasks, and as the snows fell we began organizing our charges into their own groups.

Maester Osmund had gone through a great deal of trouble to make certain that his stores of herbs and medical supplies were well-stocked, and taking aside a fair number of people he deemed had "healer's hands" he set them to work making remedies and cures that he believed we would be needing before winter was off.

My husband had appointed a proper steward, one Merrell Flint, whom I took to immediately. He had been born in the North but had spent much of his young life south, in the Reach and later on in King's Landing. When Robb had started the rebellion his life in the south had ended, but there was little for him left in the land of his birth. There was more to his story than that, I could sense, but I did not press him—there was too much to do and I trusted in Robb's judgment. Merrell Flint was a quiet man, but capable, and he took over much of the duties that Robb and I had been seeing to personally, such as apportioning rations and accounting for expenses, as well as seeing to making accommodations for our people.

Lady Catelyn and the nimble-fingered saw to the task of mending garments and making existing ones more appropriate for winter. We'd spent some time fashioning warmer clothing before, but what we'd managed to make wasn't nearly enough and I kicked myself for underestimating how the population of the keep would swell once winter came. Lady Catelyn did not seem to mind the work, but when I had time to join her she did remark that there had been far less to do the last time winter had stopped by.

"But then," she said with a hollow smile, "that was before the fire."

I wanted to reach for her hand, but she bent her head over her work and I stilled the urge. As proud as I was over the state of our keep now that it had been rebuilt, I realized that for Lady Catelyn there would never be anything like what she had lost. Later, when we had finished as much as we could that day, I attempted to speak to her about how she was feeling, but in this pursuit I was gently but firmly rebuffed. It seemed that as free as I was to confide in her, Lady Cat did not feel the same ease in confiding in me. I accepted the distance she enforced, even though I worried as the days passed and a gloom settled over her. I tried to tell myself that it _was _winter—people could hardly be cheery. All around me people seemed to be turning inward, reaching for some reserve of fortitude. It only troubled me because I did not think it was a reserve I shared. I had never truly felt "Southern" before, but as I observed the people around me it became clearer that there was a particular single-mindedness that winter had woven into the culture of the North.

One change brought about by winter that I did not expect was my relationship with a creature that had remained on the periphery of my world up until then. Although the king had been at Winterfell for several months, I had seen little of Grey Wind, the dire wolf that people had spoken of as his constant companion throughout the long years of the war. The wolf was said to never leave Robb's side, yet I had seen him only a handful of times since the king had taken residence in the keep.

"He knows I have you in bed with me now," Robb had teased roguishly when I remarked on it once. "There's no room for him about."

I forbore to point out that I had not always been the woman in my husband's bed, yet Grey Wind had still stuck closely, hadn't he? I simply shrugged off Grey Wind's long absences. He had spent the better part of three years guarding my husband, after all. Perhaps now that there was no need he saw fit to reclaim some of his freedom. It was so easy to think of the dire wolves as pets, considering their devotion to the Starks. It was a while before I understood that for all his loyalty, Grey Wind was as wild a beast as any dire wolf.

But now that winter was come I marked a change in the reticent wolf's behavior that was both a cause for astonishment and secret delight.

It started innocuously enough. Several days after winter came I found him curled at the foot of our table in the great hall. At the time I believed that even he had found the elements too harsh and paid him no mind when he appeared the next night, and the next. No one remarked on his sudden presence and I got used to seeing him, though whether I liked having him nearby was something I could not answer decisively. On one hand, he was a welcome source of heat in the chill, and settled at my feet he almost made me believe that I could still feel my toes. On the other hand, he was unlike any other animal I had ever encountered. I had tried to feed him the first night, and thinking he was akin to the dogs I had known at the Twins, I simply dropped the scrap of meat onto the floor. Grey Wind had given the food a long look before tilting his head up to me in a decidedly pointed fashion. Robb had snickered and picked up the scrap, dropping it onto Grey Wind's plate. After giving me another look, the wolf proceeded to eat. After several more attempts to feed him, I would have concluded that Grey Wind simply didn't like taking food from anyone who wasn't Robb—which turned out _not_ to be the case when he accepted food from Lady Catelyn. It was at the fifth meal he shared with us that I realized why he wasn't accepting what I gave him: I never put the food in his plate.

It gave me a mixture of irritation and amusement, being condescended to by a dire wolf. When he finally ate something I gave him I couldn't help but nudge him with my foot. It wasn't a kick, precisely, but it was enough for him to give me another of those judgmental looks, and just when I was about to worry about whether he'd snap my foot off, he went back to eating. He left the table the same moment that I did, and Robb barely caught me in time when Grey Wind's solid bulk casually bumped against my hip and sent me reeling.

Then one morning I woke to find I could not move my legs because the giant wolf had stretched out across them. Robb had gone, as he often rose before I did, so there was no one to share my astonishment at the sight of the dire wolf on our bed. For a long time all I could do was stare back at Grey Wind as he lifted his head from his great paws and looked at me. Then, breaking away from my gaze, he rose fluidly off the bed and landed softly on the floor. Padding over to the door, he settled beside it, lowering his head back to his paws in a restful pose, though his eyes remained open and alert.

"Your wolf is behaving strangely," I murmured to Robb later that night, as we cuddled beneath the furs. I shot a glance over Robb's shoulder, where the beast in question had taken up his post by the door. I hadn't noticed when Robb had begun letting him in before that morning, but it was impossible not to be conscious of him now.

Robb nodded, his expression grave. "So I've seen. I would say he's grown fond of you, but I don't think it's as simple as that." His lips quirked in a shadow of a smile. "I would be…disgruntled if he were fonder of you than me, considering what he and I have been through. I think that he sticks close by because he wants to protect you."

The words sent a shiver of dread creeping down my spine. I made myself smile, though I knew it was as thin an expression as the one my husband wore. "Protect me? From what?"

Robb's arms tightened around me, fitting my body closer against his. His lips brushed gently over my eyes. "From anything. Don't mind him, sweet. It's good to have friends in winter."

It was a statement I would soon dispute.

* * *

A raven came one morning, startling all of us and yet giving us hope. Already half-frozen, it was a determined little thing that Maester Osmund was equally determined to save. When we learned that it had flown all the way from King's Landing—it was a rare raven that could learn to fly to several destinations, but it was an even rarer one that could survive the trip in winter—we were equally astonished, and for a while we were more concerned with the bird's welfare than the message it brought. Foolish, I suppose, but if I had known what the message contained I would have dwelt on the bird forever rather than deal with the note's import.

It was almost noon when Robb, Lady Cat, and myself secluded ourselves in my husband's study. It adjoined both the war room and the library and was significantly smaller, but for once having a small room seemed to be an advantage. The massive hearth managed to keep the entire room relatively warm—I could almost bring myself to believe that it wasn't yet winter. The only reason I preferred our bedroom was the privacy it afforded.

I considered the probability and wisdom of moving our bed to this room while Lady Cat went about retrieving the message the raven had brought. It was a complicated bit of work, unraveling the bindings over the message without destroying the contents. We couldn't afford to wait for it to thaw—what if the ink ran?—but thankfully Lady Cat managed to pry the parchment out without issue. Still, it took the better part of an hour by the fire, and as Robb read the message I was too busy marveling at how even the simplest of tasks were complicated by the weather. As a result, I missed the shift in my husband's expression and the wordless exchange between him and his mother as he passed the missive to her.

"I will see to it that the Maester sends ravens out," Lady Cat said calmly, pulling me from my musings.

"Ravens?" I repeated blankly. My eyes flew to the paper in my mother-in-law's hand. "What does it say?"

This time I saw the look between Robb and Lady Cat as they ignored me, felt the understanding that passed between them. I girded myself, knowing that something was definitely wrong. Robb turned to me, though he spoke to his mother.

"Thank you, mother," he said with the same deathly calm.

"I can go with you," I said to Lady Cat uncertainly, apparently not as familiar with my husband as I'd apparently hoped. Though I knew that something of terrible consequence had taken place, I could not yet decipher my husband's expressions. To my perception he was simply, very suddenly…Stark-like, for lack of a better word. I'm a reasonably eloquent woman, but it is still difficult for me to articulate the minute changes in my husband's face that warn me that I'm dealing with Robb Stark, the King in the North, rather than my Robb. At that moment, I did not know if he wanted me to leave as well.

"No," Robb said, reaching out and grasping my wrist before I could reach for my skirts. "We have to talk."

I was so stricken by the ominous tone of the words that I barely nodded at Lady Cat when she dipped into a curtsy and left. Robb's expression gentled as the door shut behind her and he shifted his grip so that he was holding my hand. The comforting gesture was not reassuring, and I felt my insides winding tighter with dread.

"King Tyrion has sent word," he began, pausing with distinct discomfort as he appeared to consider how best to phrase what to say next. The absence of his usual forthrightness rattled me enough to jump in before he could find the words.

"Is it about your sister?" I asked, though I knew that this could not be the reason. Lady Catelyn would not have been so calm if the news had concerned one of her daughters.

"Sansa is well, though I fear for her. I fear for all of us."

My hand clenched around his and I drew in a sharp breath. The acknowledgment of fear, though it generally pleased me when Robb shared his feelings, was something I did not want to hear. "What is wrong, Robb?" I asked tersely, and perhaps he knew that if he didn't simply _tell_ me I would begin screaming.

"There has been some development concerning Daenerys Targaryen," Robb said shortly, his expression stony. "Tyrion cannot share it through a raven, nor does he have anyone he trusts who might bear the news to me considering the winter. He has asked me to ride south."

I blinked, feeling suddenly lightheaded. No one was dead, there was no horde of invaders at the shores of Westeros, but… "To King's Landing?"

My voice was a faint, blank thing to my own ears.

"No, it's too far and whatever has happened is too urgent. He's proposed for us to meet at Riverrun. It's a fairly equal distance between Winterfell and King's Landing, and it will save us time. I will also be able to attend to other matters involving my uncle. I need to send word immediately to let Tyrion know that I've agreed so that he can ride."

"You've agreed?" I asked and I winced at the shrillness of the question. But the flow of words could not be stopped, even if I could control their tone—which I did not. "A few minutes after you read his message and you've decided that you'll go?"

Robb's voice was low, patient. "I don't have much choice in the matter. I've told you how things stand between our countries now."

Politics was never something I would be good at. I had a faint inkling of this propensity—an unfortunate one, given the fact that I was now a queen—but if I needed affirmation of how ill-suited I was to the dance of power, that particular moment in my life did the trick. Robb had told me much about the fragile state of both the North and what remained of Tyrion's realm. The war had cost both sides much, and people were still coping with the fracturing of Westeros_._ Now winter was here, and the people also faced the mounting threat of an invasion from the east—something that might very well reunite what had just been divided. Robb and Tyrion were given to believe, from whatever little birds were singing, that the Queen in the East did not recognize the North's freedom from the Iron Throne. She saw the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms as her birthright, and like the first Targaryens to lay a claim to Westeros, she had three dragons under her command.

Yet at that moment, sitting with my husband in his study, the urgency of that situation failed to reach me, though I knew it was the likely cause of Tyrion's missive. All that was important to me was that my husband was being called away, and every part of me rioted at the thought.

"Can't he just come see us?" I asked desperately, though I knew the answer. All I cared about was the fact that the last time he had gone to see Tyrion we had been separated for three months. I had not cared then, as I had not cared much for the king, and my hands and mind had been full with the work to be done in Winterfell. Now Winterfell was restored, but winter was upon us, and most important to me was that my relationship with my husband had so changed that three _days_ apart were difficult to bear. "Robb, he can't expect you to ride out now that winter is here."

"He's a Southerner, love. We can hardly expect _him_ to come this far North in the winter. And he knows very well that as King in the North I am expected to stay with my people until summer has returned. Tyrion is not a fool, nor is he an ass. If he wants me to go south, there's good reason for it."

"We can send someone else," I persisted, thinking of Beric and all the well-trained men who were devoted to my husband. "You don't have to go."

Robb's reply did not surprise me, but it bore the force of a bludgeon nonetheless on my nerves, which suddenly felt very fragile. Robb smoothed his thumb over the thin skin over my wrist, where I imagined he could feel the frantic tapping of my pulse. When he spoke, his voice was low-pitched and gentle. "I feel that I must go. I swore to aid Tyrion if he needed me, and he is now my brother by law. And it isn't only for his benefit that I go to meet him. If Daenerys Targaryen moves to claim the Iron Throne, I fear she will not be disposed to respect the borders between the North and the South. Perhaps she is coming for us even now. The gods know that winter is no shield when one has dragons."

I tore my hand from his, unable to bear his caress. It was a gesture he had taken up of late, and on most days it had the power to soothe and comfort. But I did not want to be soothed and comforted. I was so furious, so unable to believe what I was hearing, that it _hurt_ to be near him. The anger was irrational, and part of it was the fact that I could find no reasonable reply to what he had just said. I stood and walked over to the fire, a dark part of my mind musing that it might be a good thing to have dragons breathing fire over the block of ice that my world had become.

"You'll manage without me, I'm certain," my husband said reassuringly—which he would later admit was the _wrong_ thing to say.

"Of course I will," I snapped at him, though I knew it was unfair. "I managed well enough without you before, didn't I?"

Robb didn't reply. I wanted to believe that I had hurt him, but his expression—though somber—did not afford me that satisfaction. He didn't seem the slightest bit offended or even wounded. I had never considered myself petty, but the lack of reaction brought forth a viciousness continues to be a source of shame for me.

"Go on then!" I continued recklessly. "The walls of Winterfell won't crumble without you and _I_ certainly won't. But if you and your men freeze before you reach Riverrun, you'll have no one but yourself to blame for riding out to see that horrid Imp!"

My husband got to his feet slowly. Despite the force of my anger I felt the little flop inside my belly that I recognized as fear. I kept the snarl on my lip, staring him down as he approached me, his face inscrutable. I had never spoken to anyone the way I had just spoken to him. I didn't know what Stark men were like in this respect, but where I had grown up the kind of speech I had just given merited a bruise on one's cheek, at the very least.

Robb's lifted his hands, lowering them so that they rested lightly on my shoulders.

"Morgan," he said softly. "It's important."

I was unaware of how brittle I was until that moment, as my composure splintered at Robb's gentleness before I could even begin to pull the pieces back together. To my horror, I felt the sting of tears. I turned away—perhaps too swiftly—but my husband seemed to know what was happening. His arms came around me and he pressed a kiss to the top of my head. Unfortunately the tenderness only served to make things worse, and I swiped roughly at my eyes. I had never been one to cry—my father had often referred to tears as a woman's cheapest trick. The tears were yet another revelation about myself.

"I'm sorry, sweet," Robb whispered gruffly. "I don't want this any more than you."

I turned into his arms, let him rub delicious circles into my back as I wept. Though something in me cringed at my lack of control, the greater part was eager for comfort. I don't recall exactly how long we stood there and by the time there were no more tears left to be cried I was exhausted. I wanted to simply lie down and pull my husband with me, rest in his arms until the dull ache that had started at my temples receded. But I had behaved childishly enough for one day, and after several attempts I found my voice, hoarse though it was at first.

"I'm sorry, Robb," I whispered, meaning it. "I don't know what came over me. Of course it's important. Please don't feel like you have to apologize, you have no reason to. I'll go see to your supplies. You'll need rations for a month or more considering the winter."

He chuckled when I tried to step back and tightened his hold on me. "There are bannermen and others who will be marching with me, and they will need two weeks or so to gather, at the very least. You needn't rush to see me off, sweetling."

Though I was sorry, my nerves were still raw, and my mood swung dangerously. The teasing note in his voice provoked me terribly and I yanked my chin away from his grasp when he tried to tilt it upwards. "The sooner you leave, the sooner you can return," I said archly. "Putting aside the task of packing for you, I still have duties to attend to, Your Grace."

"Indeed you do," Robb murmured, one hand on my nape and the other at my bottom. It seemed he could brush aside my temper, if not my tears. He hauled me up unceremoniously against him. "Now attend to me, wife. The road will be a thousand leagues longer without you."

I let him kiss me, brush away the trails of moisture on my cheeks with his lips. It was this quality in my husband that never failed to reach me, this masterful approach infused with tenderness. There were moments when he seemed so hard, so invulnerable, that he terrified me. There were times—more frequently of late—that he appeared to me as he had when we first met: the grim, icy King in the North. Such times I could almost believe that the Robb I had come to know was but a dream, but then the cold mantle would fall away and _my_ Robb would emerge.

His lips trailed lower and I pushed at him, bemused. "This isn't the place for that, Your Grace."

"No?" He stopped trying to kiss me, but then he turned his attention to hiking up my skirts. "Why not?"

"There's no bed in here!" I laughed, though in truth I didn't care. For once I didn't care where we were. I didn't care who might hear, who might walk in.

He lifted me up against him, guiding my thighs so that they were locked around his waist. His grin made me want to cling tighter and yet rear back. "Who said we needed one?"

Several long, urgent, rapturous moments later, as Robb panted against my neck and I wrapped myself securely around him, I promised myself that I would never quarrel with my husband again.

And despite what happened after, I _did_ mean it.

* * *

The days sped by in a manner that surprised me. My experience with time in the winter was that it had a way of grinding to a halt. Yet it seemed several blinks and winks later most of my husband's accompanying bannermen had assembled and were eager to be off south. There was a great amount of grumbling about the Imp, but not one word of complaint was uttered against my husband for his decision to indulge Tyrion.

It took all of my self-control to keep my composure in that period of my life, keeping the maelstrom of emotions locked inside and away from my husband. I was determined to keep my promise not to quarrel with him, but the task was by turns the easiest thing in the world and the hardest thing I'd ever tried to do. I had prided myself on being level-headed, and while I did feel deeply my feelings were steady—like a river that flowed strong and swift and true. Now they were a stormy, churning sea, crashing this way and that. One moment I wanted to burrow into his solid warmth and weep at the fears and doubts that huddled in the corners of my mind, creeping forward to torment me when he was not near. The next I wanted to claw at him, tear at his hair and beat his chest until his heart ached as fiercely as mine. In the next breath I wanted to kiss him everywhere, to hold him as close as possible. I wanted to crawl beneath his skin and stay there, so that I would be with him everywhere. It was a madness that I contained, keeping it as far beneath the smooth surface as I could. If Robb sensed it, he was wise enough to leave it be.

More likely he was distracted, too consumed with his own feelings to notice what I was trying so hard not to show. He had not lied to me about being unhappy about going south—his countenance became as grim as the weather as the time for departure drew near. Or perhaps it was simply that Robb did not notice how I was coming apart inside because he was rarely in my company after the day in the study. He spent his days cloistered away with his bannermen, discussing various matters: what the Imp wanted, what would happen if it came to another war, what about the trouble North of the Wall? I had wanted to take part, as I often did in all councils, but though I was permitted to be present I realized, with chagrin, that I had little to offer in discussions of war. I had never had any decisive part in a conflict before, and listening to the men speak of what might come and what we might do only served to cast a gloom over me that worsened the tumult inside. I stopped attending and no one asked me to return, and I reflected glumly that I might not have been the best choice of wife after all. Robb might have been better off with a warrior who could be a true help-mate in such times. Not that any of my sisters were such women, but there were certainly women like that to be had.

The day before their departure I resolved that I would go out into the godswood and say a prayer for all of us. I had been born in the light of the Seven, but it was the old gods who held sway in the North, it was said. And winter was here.

The men had been doing a great deal of shoveling, clearing paths in and out of the keep. The path to the godswood was not one of them, but as soon as one of the young knights in the courtyard realized I meant to go out he made to find free hands to make way. Embarrassed and guilty that extra work was to be done on my account, I was in the middle of debating with him about my capabilities of walking perfectly well through the snow when a familiar voice cut into our conversation.

"The Queen must have her walks, Ser, and if it is her desire to plod through snow there's no stopping her."

"Jon!" I exclaimed, clapping a hand over my mouth when my voice rang loudly throughout the courtyard. People were staring enough as it was.

I had been so absorbed in my discussion with the knight that the two of us had not noticed the black brother ride in. His mount was a handsome gelding already being led away by a capable lad. He had stridden through at least half the courtyard to reach us, but he might have passed me and I would not have noticed. I smiled up at him sheepishly, mortified at how badly I was behaving that day and that he was witness to it.

"Jon, forgive me for not noticing you earlier," I said earnestly. The knight murmured his pardons and I excused him with a nod. I walked closer, noticing that my brother-in-law was looking very fine. Or perhaps he was simply a welcome sight in such a time. "You look well."

"Your Grace." Jon bowed stiffly, his expression somber. As I got closer I saw that he looked as grim as ever—and as remote as the day we had first met. I halted my approach, swallowing the sting of disappointment when it became apparent that the strangely comfortable relationship we had enjoyed previously had apparently shifted back. We had not corresponded since he had last been at Winterfell, but we had left things in a place that I was certain was in the area of fondness.

The uncharacteristic exuberance I felt at the sight of him withered at his coolness, but if Jon Snow was not pleased to see me, Ghost certainly was. The dire wolf bounded forward and I froze when I realized that he might knock me over. Instead, he skidded to a halt at my feet—and sent muck that had settled on the freshly-cleared cobblestones flying onto my dress. Why of all days had I decided to wear something sky blue?

I looked at the dire wolf who was staring up at me expectantly and bit back a sigh. I patted him on the head, my consternation melting as he pressed his skull up against my palm, his ears flattening adorably. I had tried to pet Grey Wind once, and he had rewarded me with an expression that I swear was as dumbfounded as a dire wolf could look.

"Will it wash?"

Jon had moved closer, and I was relieved to see a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. I glanced down at my dress. "Yes, I think so. It shall have to be soaked immediately, though." I thought of the servant who would have to dip her hands into icy water for the sake of this dress and promptly decided it wasn't worth it, particularly when Jon tried to dismiss me.

"I will not keep you, Your Grace."

"Don't be silly," I said quickly, looping my arm through his so that he couldn't flee. Ghost grumbled and bumped his head against my thigh. Happily for him, I was short so I didn't have to bend to scratch him behind the ears. "I haven't seen you in months. I will get you settled and then we'll have to catch up."

"Were you not going out into the godswood?"

That gave me pause. I looked around and found the knight I had been speaking to. He was already speaking with the sentries, but it appeared that he had not yet summoned anyone who might clear me a path. I still didn't really care about having to trudge through snow—the godswood wasn't far—but I wanted very much to speak with Jon. We might walk together with Ghost, as we used to.

"Later, perhaps," I said at length. Hesitantly, I added—"Will you and Ghost go with me?"

Jon smiled. "I will have to see His Grace first."

My heart stuttered as the possible reason for his arrival occurred to me. "You _are_ here to keep an eye on me again, aren't you? Or are…you're not leaving too, are you?"

He nodded, the smile disappearing. "King Tyrion has sent for me as well. And no," he added, apparently catching the surprise and curiosity that I was trying not to show, "I don't know why. He did write that it was urgent and could not be communicated in a letter."

I was developing a lively dislike of King Tyrion. Giving Ghost one last scratch behind his ear I picked up my skirts. "Robb is meeting with some of the banners who will be going with him. Walk with me—I don't think we'll have much time to speak after all. They were planning on leaving tomorrow morning. You arrived just in time."

"How large a force will he be taking with him?" It was unnerving how much like my husband Jon could look at times. We started back into the inner cloister. I looked back once, in time to see Ghost vanish into the snow. Jon didn't seem to mind and instead looked keenly at me for a reply. My husband's war room was at least a good twenty minutes in, but I didn't want to spend all of that time discussing things I wasn't as knowledgeable about as I'd have liked.

"I don't know if 'force' is the right word for it," I said uncomfortably. "They're not riding to war. But I estimate a little over a thousand will be escorting him."

"And how many will be left here?"

"Another thousand. Why do you look so troubled?"

Jon's free hand came to rest over mine. It was an awkward touch, but it seemed that he meant to be reassuring though his words were not. "You may not want to go walking through the snow later, if I tell you. I don't think a thousand here would set your heart at ease if you knew."

I frowned at him. Stark men seemed to be experts at leaving ominous statements before trailing off into silence. "I've heard that there are some problems with the wildlings, but last I heard the King Beyond the Wall's army collapsed in on itself. Is the Wall no longer secure?"

"The Wall is as it has ever been, save that there are too few of us to man it properly now. We've been asking for more men for a long time now, even before the war broke out, but no ruler has listened—not even Robb. Now they may have to. Yes, Mance is no longer a problem—" a pained look flashed over his face as he said it—"but it isn't just wildlings that have been testing our strength of late. There's the winter now, and all that comes with it."

There was fear there, somewhere. I couldn't exactly hear it in his voice or see it in his eyes, but it was there. Or perhaps I simply wanted to have company, sick with terror as I was at what he had just shared. The latter possibility became a certainty when Jon's hand squeezed mine.

"Forgive me, Your Grace," he said gruffly, giving me a rueful half-smile. "I didn't mean to frighten you. I forgot who I was speaking to."

I scowled at him, fear giving way to annoyance. "Why, because I'm a woman and it's natural that I scare easily?"

_Yes_. I read the answer in his face even as I saw him struggle for an inoffensive reply that would diffuse my anger. The panic worked a fine-grooved tension over his features and as I caught sight of it laughter bubbled out of my throat, inane though it was.

"Oh, I _have_ missed you," I confessed, the admission tickled out by Jon's astonished expression. "You're possibly the only person I know who can be insulting and amusing at the same time."

Jon's brows lifted, and he forgot himself again. "Not even Robb?"

"No, he's just infuriating."

We were still laughing when we reached the war room. Neither of us was particularly funny, but it seemed we found mutual hilarity in one another. I conceded that I _had_ looked rather queasy and stricken by Jon's dire pronouncements and he accepted my mockery of his gloomy countenance. He asked me if I mocked Robb in the same way and I replied that I was too dutiful a wife to mock my husband. Jon surprised me by slyly pointing out that simply because I enjoyed my wifely duty didn't make me dutiful. My face flamed and I wondered how he could possibly have known how things now stood between me and Robb. I swatted at him just as the sentries caught sight of us and pulled open the doors.

The childish air that had settled over me and Jon vanished in the tense atmosphere of the war room. Lords got to their feet to acknowledge my entrance and Jon gently disentangled his arm so that he could kneel as Robb approached. My husband's face was expressionless.

"My Queen," Robb said quietly, kissing my hand.

"Forgive the interruption, but I've brought you your brother, Your Grace," I said, trying to smile and finding that I could not. I felt inexplicably anxious.

"And a sworn brother of the Night's Watch," Robb felt the need to point out. He released my hand and gestured for Jon to stand. "Welcome, Jon. What's brought you to Winterfell?"

"Your Grace," Jon said stiffly, as though the man he was speaking to was not the boy he had grown with, "Commander Mormont bid me come after King Tyrion sent word to the Wall." He reached beneath his cloak and produced a worn letter. "King Tyrion has asked that I accompany Your Grace to Riverrun."

Robb took the letter but did not open it. "I understand that you and Tyrion are friends of a sort?"

"Yes, Your Grace, but the letter did not seem like an invitation to visit."

"Join us, then," Robb said, indicating a free seat at the long table. "I'm sure you have much to tell us about these disturbing tidings creeping down from the Wall."

"Yes, Your Grace." Jon bowed and moved to that seat. I looked around at the free chairs, mulling over where I might position myself.

Robb's hand cupped my elbow and I found him turning me towards the door. "We will see you at the evening meal, my Queen," he said firmly.

I had never been openly excluded from a council before. Yes, I knew I had no place among warriors, but even Lady Catelyn had been welcome to the councils during Robb's war for freedom. I would not be a nuisance, even if I could not contribute anything. The only plausible reason for dismissing me, even as courteously as my husband did so, was that the subject was not fit for my ostensibly delicate ears. The words I had shot at Jon just minutes before played on my lips. _Why, because I'm a woman and it's natural that I scare easily?_ If we had been alone I would have forgotten my promise never to quarrel with Robb again. Despite the heat that I knew was rising on my face, I managed a nod and excused myself softly to the men assembled.

As I was walking out Jon caught my eye. It was fleeting, but I saw the words he mouthed silently as he nodded patronizingly at me, his eyes twinkling with rare mirth.

_Dutiful wife._

I bore down on the urge to stick my tongue out at him, but despite the humiliation I could not stop the smile that played on my mouth as I stepped out.

* * *

It happened so suddenly that I barely managed a frightened squeak. One moment I was walking alone, on my way to the great hall for dinner, and the next I was seized by a strong pair of hands and dragged behind a heavy tapestry. I had not seen anyone else in the corridor—not even the sentries who were always about—but the light was limited and as the tapestry swung back in place and darkness enveloped us I realized that it was entirely possible to be accosted by someone even in somewhere like Winterfell.

The space behind the tapestry was a narrow niche, thankfully not musty since the tapestry had only been put up recently. It was one of the many treasures that had been an unintentional byproduct of the war. I took a sharp breath, opening my mouth to scream, when my assailant's mouth came down on mine and the dread that had seeped into my veins was dissolved in a rush of pleasure.

"_Robb!_" I hissed furiously, tearing my mouth away in the next breath. "You horrid _oaf!_ _What_ are you doing?!"

Robb's laugh was low and as dark as our surroundings. He nipped at my jaw, sliding his hands familiarly over my body. "You've been hiding from me all day. I decided to indulge you in playing hide-and-go-seek."

"I _was not_," I said hotly, glad the lack of light covered my blush. At least it wasn't the kind of hiding that we were doing now. I squirmed away from him but he simply pinned me against the wall. My tone turned frosty. "There is much to do, Your Grace, in case you've forgotten."

"Do remind me then, Your Grace." I could _feel_ his smirk.

"Let's get to the point," I said, marshaling my reserve. "No matter what you may think, Your Grace, I have no propensity for hiding in corners. Was there anything you needed from me?"

"Just this." His mouth caught mine. "And this." His hand cupped my breast.

"We don't have time for this," I said breathlessly, straining back ineffectually, my retreat blocked by the wall. "They're all waiting for us in the great hall."

"I want to be alone with you."

The madness inside roiled up. _Behind a tapestry?_ I wanted to ask, the hysterical laughter catching in my throat even as my heart skittered wildly at his words, the urgent tone in which they were said. But the words that came out were bitter, flat. "Truly? I thought the opposite was true. Indeed, you hardly seem to want me around."

Robb sighed, his hot breath raising gooseflesh along my neck.

"Don't be angry with me," he pleaded, nuzzling my throat. "I didn't want you to worry any more than you already do. Men of the Night's Watch are like crows—dark wings, dark words. They usually don't bring news that is pleasant. There is no need for you to share my disquiet."

_Isn't there?_ The voice was very small, but in my mind it rang clear. _I'm your wife. I'm supposed to make it better._

_Well, you know how to do _that, came the reply, which sounded distinctly as though it came from my father. _You don't need to sit in his councils to be able to do _that.

"I'm not angry," I whispered, sliding my arms around him. It was the truth—it was a feeling that cut deeper than that. "You're right, I…it's all so difficult to deal with sometimes, Robb."

This time when he kissed me I kissed him back.

The sounds of approach halted us where we might have taken things too far. We stood still, trying to control our breathing as the sentries swept past. I don't know if it was our skill or the sentries' lack of it that we went unnoticed. The guards' voices were low, but we overheard the snatches of conversation. Word of Jon's unexpected arrival had caused a stir. And it seemed my husband was not the only man who was disturbed by it.

Robb lifted the tapestry slightly, peering into the hall and making sure the guards had passed. Taking my hand he pulled me back out into the corridor. He turned back to tug at one of the many locks of hair that had come loose from where I'd pinned it up. For once, I was not concerned about my appearance after one of our trysts.

"Robb, do you know what King Tyrion wants with Jon?" I asked bluntly.

Robb's warm expression turned remote. "No, I do not. I was as surprised as anyone that Tyrion asked for him. They shared a passing acquaintance when Jon first left for the Wall, but as far as I know they did not keep correspondence after. Do you know something about it?"

"No," I answered, chewing my lip. "I thought it might be something involving the Night's Watch, but there are other black brothers who might have gone in his stead. Why ask for Jon specifically? You don't think Jon's in trouble, do you?"

Robb did not reply. Instead he lifted a hand and a finger came to rest between my brows, rubbing at the furrow that had formed there. It was something that I often did for him. I looked up as his hand fell away and something about the way he looked at me just then made me laugh awkwardly.

"You're right, I worry too much," I said lightly, taking his hand. "Let's go down to dinner, Your Grace."

Dinner that night was a noisy affair. It was almost like a feast, except there was nothing to celebrate or commemorate. There was little wine or ale, but it seemed spirits were not needed for men of the North to be rowdy. At first I was apprehensive—there was something about winter that induced speaking in whispers and listening intently for the smallest sounds—but before long I understood that the noise was a helpful sort of defiance. Winter could come and go, but the people would endure. They would not stop living simply because the cold winds had risen.

The Greatjon was there, and the Lords Glover, Tallhart, Flint, and Manderly. They had each brought a retinue of knights and soldiers, but they were supping in the garrison with the men directly under my husband's command. Beric was there, but he was not in the best of moods—he had wanted to go south with Robb, but my husband had prevailed upon him to stay and watch the keep. Beric had special reason to want to go to King Tyrion's court. Thoros of Myr, an old friend of his, had reportedly just returned to King's Landing. And if reports were to be believed, it was Thoros of Myr who had saved Beric's life several times during the war. I wondered why King Tyrion welcomed Thoros, who was also one of the Brotherhood Without Banners, yet Beric's lands remained closed to him. I wondered if Thoros' reappearance in what remained of Westeros had something to do with Tyrion's urgent missive. I wanted to speak with Robb and ask him, but I had a feeling it was another subject that was closed to me—like the question of Jon's importance in this southern march. It was a terrible feeling, and it filled me with guilt, but a part of me believed that Robb had not told me the truth about what he knew on that matter.

_Too much is happening_, I mused with no small amount of frustration. During the war, ensconced in the Twins, I had believed myself capable of coping with "such times." I had never really realized how far removed I was from the conflict, how small my world had been. Now I was acutely aware of how little I understood, and how much was going on around me.

"Are you tired, sweet?" Robb asked as we finished our meal. People had begun to filter out of the hall. Lively though dinner had been, it was no feast—there could be no lingering considering what awaited most of the men on the morrow.

"No," I said with a tremulous smile. It was shameless, perhaps, but I wanted nothing better than to spend the rest of the night making love with him. How long would it be before we had another night together?

"Good." He kissed my hand before he pulled me to my feet. "To bed, my Queen. I'll be up shortly—I still have to settle a few matters with Beric and a few others."

I looked to where Beric still sat near the end of the hall. I could almost imagine a storm cloud brewing over his head. I nodded, hoping Beric would not brood for long.

It was a vain hope, it seemed, as I sat in our bed an hour and a half later, still alone. I had performed my ablutions, brushed my hair until it felt like silk, and had even taken the trouble to dab attar of orchid—the same my sisters had used on me on my wedding day—over myself. Robb had commented on the scent once—he had certainly noticed it on our wedding night—and I was suddenly glad that my sisters had smuggled it into my belongings all those moons ago.

I could not sleep—tonight was too precious for that. But the urgency in my blood burned restless as the second hour drew to a close and I threw off the covers and went digging for a warmer, thicker robe to wear over my nightdress. The men would have plenty of time with my husband on the road. I wanted him for the few precious hours we had left that night. If Beric was _still_ upset about having to stay behind, that attitude would not change overnight and Robb was wasting his breath. It occurred to me that I could ask Lyla to call for Robb, but my timid handmaiden was terrified of him and he would send her scurrying away with a look before she even delivered my message.

"Your Grace?"

I nearly jumped a foot at the tentative, deferential voice. I swung around, barely out of the door, and noticed for the first time the guards my husband had posted on both ends of the entrance to our chambers. It was one of the changes my husband had just implemented in the keep, and he _had_ mentioned to me at dinner that I would have my own guard from then on, but I had not properly grasped the immediacy of it.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but did you have need of anything?"

The young knight—Ser Wyl Tallhart, if memory served—spoke to me with his head bowed, clearly discomfited to see me in the state of dress that I was in. I lifted my chin, refusing to be embarrassed. It wasn't exactly being _un_dressed. Lady Catelyn had told me that it was customary to keep guards at the doors of any place where a royal was, and that the guards were expected to be there even in the day time. Still, it was difficult for me to get used to being watched, to have two unfortunate young knights trailing after me all the time. Things had been much more relaxed before Robb had taken up residence again, but he had at least been reasonable before winter had come. Now he was doing things that I didn't understand, or didn't agree with, and he no longer had time to explain or discuss things with me as he did before. It wasn't as though he had promised me he would, or that I had expected him to, particularly at the start of our marriage, but the resentment sprang up unbidden nonetheless.

"Stay here, please," I said as civilly as I could manage, knowing it wasn't their fault that they had to watch me. "Do you know where my husband is?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Ser Wyl replied. "If it please you, I may relay whatever message you have for His Grace."

The words dammed up in my throat. It was one thing to speak to Lyla, who would obey without question, though the problem was that she would not accomplish what I needed her to do. It was completely different to instruct this knight, on whom I was already making a doubtlessly unfavorable impression, and while he certainly seemed capable of telling my husband that I wanted to speak to him, I simply did not want this man to be my messenger.

"There is no need," I said at length, tasting defeat. I couldn't go to my husband looking the way I did, that much was plain. It would shame him—I saw that much truth in the eyes of my guards. The prospect of dressing again was unappealing and I was about to step back into the chamber when I heard someone approach.

"Halt," came my other guard's stern command. Ser Rol Manderly was at least five years older than Jon, but he looked like a boy next to my brother-in-law, who did as he was bid but looked almost puzzled by the forced authoritativeness in the knight's tone.

"I will speak to my brother, good Sers," I said before Ser Wyl could speak—it felt wrong to be formal with Jon. No doubt the knights would wish to know his business, which would inevitably prolong it. I closed the door to the royal chambers and approached Jon, glad that he had stopped a good way from where my guards were posted. It would be highly inappropriate to speak to Jon inside, but I wanted to avoid being overheard. I didn't know my two knights well enough to be aware of their capacities for discretion. Speaking in the corridor wasn't exactly a better alternative, but it was the only option other than simply refusing to speak to Jon.

"Your pardon, Your Grace," Jon said when we were close enough to speak in hushed tones and still understand one another. It appeared he did not want to be overheard either.

"Is something wrong?" I asked, looking him over. He seemed outwardly composed, but men simply didn't turn up at one's door in the middle of the night for no good reason. It occurred to me then that I hadn't seen him at dinner.

"No," Jon said immediately. "It's simply that I need to speak with Robb. There were things I could not say to him before, when we were in council."

"I'm sorry, but he isn't here. He wanted to speak with Beric after dinner, but that was two hours ago. You haven't seen him then?"

"Not since the council, no. I went to take a nap and I'm afraid I missed dinner, though I doubt I could have spoken to him then. Do you think he's still with Beric?"

"I don't know, but if he is I'm going to be very angry with Beric. Will you go look for him? Or will you wait for Robb here?"

To my consternation, Jon gave me a teasing grin. "I would, but considering what you just said I suppose what I have to say can wait until tomorrow. I should know better than to get between a she-wolf and her mate."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," I huffed, though being called a she-wolf sent a ripple of pride through me. The compliment gave me nerve and when I spoke again I was serious. "Jon, you can tell me, you know. What you mean to tell Robb, that is. I know you and he think that I'm not strong enough or that a woman shouldn't hear such things, but I could surprise you."

Jon's voice was gentle, but firm. "I don't doubt that, Your Grace, but that isn't my decision to make. If Robb doesn't want to tell you, I have no right to."

"But why?" I demanded, furious with all Stark men at that moment. I would have snapped up at even Ned Stark, if the gods placed him before there and then. "You just said I was a she-wolf."

"I did," Jon admitted readily, but his smile seemed sad. "But you aren't _my_ she-wolf, Your Grace." His eyes shot up, to somewhere over my head. "You're his."

I spun around in time to see my husband walking up to us from the opposite end of the hallway. Grey Wind trotted after him and I heard metal clink as the guards stiffened at the animal's approach, though their greetings to my husband betrayed none of their discomfort. As Robb approached I saw that there were flakes of snow in his hair. Behind me Jon was bowing and murmuring a formal greeting, but I was too peeved to do the same.

"Where have you been?" I asked when he was within arm's reach. I brushed the snowflakes off his cloak and furs, his handsome blue-gray doublet. "Don't tell me you've been speaking to Beric all this time."

His hands manacled around my wrists and I froze, taking a good look at his face. He certainly didn't seem angry, but his grip was tight, and he when he tugged me forward I had to keep my balance to avoid crashing against him. Still, I was pressed up full-length against him, and it was only when he wrapped half his cloak around me that I realized why.

"I went into the godswood to pray," Robb answered, and I sagged with relief when his voice sounded normal. "What are you doing out in the hall, sweet?"

"I was going to look for you, but then I saw Jon. We were supposed to go out into the godswood earlier, but I forgot and then night fell." I gave him a mock-reproving look. "Don't you know that it's foolish to wander off in the woods at night, _in the winter?"_

"No less foolish than wandering the halls in one's nightdress," Robb quipped dryly. He looked at Jon. "Unless you came by to escort her into the godswood at this time?"

Jon's voice was quiet. "No, Your Grace. I came to speak with you. If I may have a few moments?"

"Can't it wait until tomorrow, Snow?" Robb's tone was impatient. I wanted to scold him for speaking to his brother that way, but something in the air kept me silent. And there was the fact that I wanted to be alone with Robb, as well.

Jon surprised me by answering in an equally sharp, if low voice. "No more than your walk into the godswood." As an afterthought-"Your Grace."

To my relief, Robb chuckled. "Very well then." He looked down at me. "To bed with you, wife."

I stepped out of the warm cocoon of Robb's body and cloak. I wanted to joke about how that was the second time he'd asked me to go to bed ahead, and if it meant another two-hour wait. Again, however, there was the curious tension hanging over us that made me say a soft good night to Jon before I walked back into our chambers. I looked back in time to see Robb clap a hand over Jon's shoulder and I smiled to myself as I shut the door, glad that at least the problem wasn't between the two of them.

It was only later that I realized that meant the problem was between me and Robb. I lay in bed, half-asleep, worrying about whether Robb was truly that upset about me being in the hallway in my nightdress. It seemed petty, particularly considering that I had another robe over it and I was only in the company of my guard—and Jon, who certainly didn't count. If anyone had a right to be upset, it was _me_—he had been the one keeping me waiting.

Then again, he _was_ the king—he could keep anyone waiting, if he wanted to.

The soft click of the latch interrupted my worry dreams. I got onto my elbows, peering owlishly around the dark room and rubbing at my eyes.

"I see that you and Jon are on good terms," Robb observed casually. I sat up properly and saw him leaning against the door. Grey Wind was sleeping at his feet. Something about my husband's loose, relaxed posture made me nervous. But his expression was smooth and his tone soft, so I brushed aside the unease.

_Remember, _I told myself sternly, _you worry too much._

"Yes," I answered with a little laugh, realizing as I replied that I had no idea _why_ Jon and I were on good terms. It was a sense of comfort that had simply fallen into place between us. "Though I confess I don't know how we came to be that way, considering how we started off." I gave Robb a teasing look. "Maybe it's because he's your brother. I seem to have acquired a soft spot for Starks."

"Half-brother. And he's not a Stark." Robb spoke quietly, his words evenly-spaced, but the short sentences had the cut of a knife blade.

I felt my face freeze, my stomach knot in tension. All drowsiness slipped away and I became very aware, as prey might at the last moment, of how dangerous the situation was. Robb continued to stare at me, saying nothing more. It became apparent to me then, why I was nervous. Robb _was_ angry—and it wasn't the usual temper that had him snapping and snarling at me. It was difficult to fathom then—I had never imagined that there was enmity between Robb and Jon. True, Lady Catelyn despised Jon, but from all accounts this was not a feeling Robb shared. Would Robb have asked Jon to check on me, all those months ago, if he didn't trust his brother? And trust certainly implied a degree of care and respect.

"Of course," I murmured, forcing myself to relax and deciding that the best way to deal with this was to let it slide. I would speak to him about Jon after I had gathered more information. I didn't like how he spoke about Jon given Jon's obvious devotion for him, but it didn't seem wise to press the issue when Robb was in this sort of mood. I gave him a flirtatious stare. "Is everything done then? Are you mine for the night?"

He swatted away my attempt to change the subject. "Did Jon come to our room often the last time he was here?"

_"_Did he _what?"_ I started to laugh at the outrageous question—and then everything became as clear as the frost coating the keep, as the frost in Robb's eyes. I wanted to hit myself for not seeing it sooner—Robb was jealous! "He did _not_ come to our room, Robb. If you recall, he and I were speaking outside, in the hallway."

"Not three feet from the door to our bedroom, yes," Robb jeered.

I took a deep breath. From my limited knowledge of such things, a woman was supposed to be flattered and pleased that her man was jealous. At the Twins I had seen a fair number of women, among them some of my sisters, delighting in the fact that men were jealous over them. At the moment, I could not understand the reason for their glee. I wasn't happy—I was furious, and if I looked past my affront I could admit that I was also hurt.

"I was going to drag you from your meeting with Beric, and I encountered Jon in the hallway," I said in the calmest, most reasonable voice I could manage.

"How fortuitous that you two always seem to be encountering one another. The woods, the courtyard, now the hallways…Winterfell is smaller than I believed, it seems."

"Is there something you want to ask me, Your Grace?" I asked through gritted teeth.

Robb's face seemed to have been carved from stone. Right at that moment, as he spoke, I was certain that _I hated him._

"Should I be worried about you and him? Should I have another reason to be glad that my brother is going south with me instead of staying here with you?"

"_Have you lost your mind?"_ I screeched at him, flinging back the furs and all but flying from the bed. My bare feet hit the freezing floor but I hardly felt it as I stalked towards him, heedless of the way Grey Wind had jumped up at my raised voice. "_Listen_ to what you're saying!"

"And what else am I to believe?" Robb bellowed back, and Grey Wind wheeled around to stare at him. The poor thing didn't seem to know whom it needed to protect. Robb pushed away from the door, meeting me in the center of the room. I didn't care if he meant to strike me because I was more than ready to strike him. "What am I to think when I know that my wife is constantly in the presence of another man? What am I to suppose when she thinks nothing of meeting him, barely dressed, in the middle of the night?"

I _knew_ that my state of dress would come back to bite me in the rump. I resolved then that I would _never_ leave my room unless I was fully-dressed _ever_ again.

"First of all, Jon only arrived _today_ and I only saw him when he arrived and tonight, when he came asking for _you_," I cried, exasperated. "For gods' sake, Robb, the guards you posted were right there!"

"They saw you, but they certainly didn't overhear what you were saying. You kept a good distance, whispering like children with a secret."

_Calm, Morgan, calm._ Another deep breath, another attempt at diffusing this madness. If he wouldn't listen to plain, truthful denial, perhaps he would listen to reason.

"Robb, please think about what you're saying. If I truly meant to dishonor us both—_and_ Jon—would I do so here? With my guards as witness? Indeed, would I dare to do so in Winterfell, where every man, woman, and child is loyal to you?"

Robb's response shocked me, cutting me deep. There was no way to defend myself from the pain.

"Would you?" he asked in a hard voice, his gaze raking over me as though he expected me to change into a serpent or some other treacherous thing. "Even if you wouldn't, I know you and Jon have spent most of your time together outside of Winterfell, on those lovely _walks_ you've mentioned."

There would be no third attempt to settle this quarrel peacefully.

"I refuse to listen to any more of this! Jon and I have done nothing wrong!" I hit him in the chest. It felt like hitting rock; pain burned through my hand. "You have no right to make such accusations, you—"

Robb's hand locked around my throat, throttling the words. I froze in terror—someone had once told me that once someone was willing to put their hands around your neck, they were willing to kill you. I told myself to fight, to struggle, and I might have, except instead of squeezing harder he leaned down to me.

"I am your husband, and your king." It was a voice he had never used on me, and one I prayed he would never use again. "I have every right. If I decided that I wanted your head on a spike, it would be. Never test me again, Morgan."

When he released me I fell to the floor, gasping gratefully for air. My eyes were watering and my mind was reeling from how things had descended so rapidly to _this_, but I saw Robb turn away—and make for the door.

"Where—" my voice ended in a croak, but Robb understood.

"You needn't fret," he said icily, and I saw that he was staring at me as though I were beneath contempt. "I'm not going to find Jon. Good night."

I don't know if my guards saw me on the floor as Robb left the room, if they had heard us fighting. I don't know how long I kept still, trying to steady my breathing. I don't know when my ragged breathing turned into ragged weeping.

But I remember the moist muzzle that pressed against my side, the large, lupine head that bumped against mine and made me stop crying. Grey Wind had not interceded in our squabble, but he had stayed behind for me. As I looked up at him, astonished, he licked gently at my face and managed to startle a laugh out of me. He continued to bump my head with his, my side, and when I realized what he seemed to want I held onto him and pulled myself up. His fur was soft, clean and comforting. He was warm and steady and I realized as I stood that it was too cold and I began to shiver as I made my way back to our bed. I crawled beneath the furs, peering over the side to see if Grey Wind meant to sleep on my legs again.

He stopped beside the bed but didn't get on. Instead, he turned his large head towards the closed door before turning back to me, his features almost…reproachful.

"Oh, go on, boy," I murmured, as the tears came again. "Don't look at me like that, please. I've done nothing wrong."

* * *

I would never learn where Robb spent that night. I spent it crying at how horrible things had suddenly become, when only hours before I had been hiding behind tapestries with my husband. I had never imagined that Robb could believe me capable of doing what he believed I did—or _would_ do—and I had never imagined him capable of what he had done to me. His fingers had left marks—they were a dark blue by morning.

But by morning what little sleep I managed to get after the tears and the thinking made only one thing clear: as a queen, and as a wife, I had my duties. No matter what Robb believed, or how I felt, or what we had said and done to one another, I could not stay abed and weep forever. I would act as I would even if we had not fought so viciously. I woke before Lyla usually came, washing and dressing. The dresses I wore in the winter were fashioned so that my neck would not be seen, and I let my hair down just in case. I reached into my jewelry box and then immediately dropped what I had taken.

In the dim light the ruby stared up at me, as though daring me _not_ to put it on. I had worn it every day since Robb had given it to me. I wanted to throw it against the wall, or out into the snow. But reason prevailed, and I reached back in and lifted the heavy ornament out, fastening it around my neck. I had worn it when I had been indifferent to my husband, worn it when I had started to care for him, and I would wear it now, when I loathed him. It weighed down painfully around the tender flesh, but perhaps I was being dramatic. I seemed to become more and more so. Willing myself not to cry, I left our chambers and went down to the great hall. Conspicuously, my guards were not at the door.

Merrell greeted me as I entered the great hall, and I knew with one look at his face that word of our quarrel had spread around the keep. I felt myself begin to tremble—it was bad enough to fight with Robb, but to have others know about it…if I had thought that their knowledge of our passion made me feel exposed and vulnerable, it was nothing to the way I felt now, as I swept over to our customary table—where Robb was _not_ seated.

"My husband?" I asked the steward as the silence in the great hall stretched on. There were relatively few people about, but there were enough of them that I could at least hear a murmur as I approached. Now only my footsteps on the rushes echoed against the stone.

"Meeting with his bannermen, Your Grace," Merrell replied. "He breakfasted with them an hour ago."

I nodded. "He will want his things brought down from our room soon. Please see to it. Has he said what time he plans to ride?"

"Within the hour, Your Grace, if he holds to the arrangements he made last night."

"Thank you."

We didn't usually eat breakfast with one another, so it was no real loss. But the food tasted like ash as I forced it down. If I had not risen so early, would he have ridden off without saying goodbye? Was what I had done—and I was still not convinced that I had committed a grievous error—so awful that it warranted the undoing of what we had built between us?

And what _had_ we built between us? It wasn't the detached partnership we had at the beginning. Nor was it the simple, uncomplicated friendship I had desired us to have before. Friendship didn't leave room for the kind of jealousy that had exploded into last night's argument.

It couldn't be love.

It was difficult for me to even _think_ the word. It couldn't be love if it made us hurt one another the way we had last night. It couldn't be love if Robb didn't know me well enough or trust me to believe that I would never do what he thought I was doing. It couldn't be love if I could not even begin to understand where all his rage and pain was coming from.

And he was in pain, I knew. That was the worst of it, perhaps. He was hurting, when there was no reason for him to be hurt, and I could bring him no comfort because he had hurt me as well.

It was thoughts like these that swirled in my mind until the steward told me that the king and his company had assembled to depart. Then my mind was blank—or perhaps all the voices inside it began to speak and scream at the same time, vying to be heard, so that I heard nothing clearly. I was conscious of other members of the household trailing after me, of several familiar knights forming a triangle around me—my Queensguard? Merrell was speaking but I didn't hear him—as we left the inner cloister and moved out into the courtyard (which had been completely cleared), all I could focus on was the sight of my husband.

He was standing next to a tall grey charger and dressed in leather armor that had been dyed to the color of ash. The furs wore were grey, his cloak the color of the snow that had begun to fall. He was bare-headed, but his squire—a young Cerwyn who had replaced my brother Olyvar—stood ready with a helm. It was his squire who caught sight of me and brought my husband's attention to my presence.

Robb turned slowly, and for a moment I thought that he would simply mount his horse and ride off without a word to me. But he came forward to meet me, his movements brisk and sure. I stood rooted to the spot beneath the great doors, shaded from the snow though the wind did not spare me its bite. Robb stopped when there was less than a foot of space between us and he bent his head towards me. I lowered my eyes, braced myself for more angry words, more threats.

Instead his gloved hand traced over the chain of my necklace, over the heavy gem that lay over my breasts. His hand moved up, resting beneath my chin and tipping it up gently so that I would look into his eyes. I did not want to, because the tears were coming, but I did not want to make more of a spectacle of us.

He looked very much like the King of Winter then, snow in his hair, over his brow. His eyes were hard, the set of his jaw implacable. I saw no tenderness there, no softness that would tell me that this was _my_ Robb, my mischievous, irreverent husband.

I closed my eyes over the tears as his mouth caught mine. The pleasure was sharp, brief, and as he pulled back it left a taste in my mouth that I knew to be sorrow. That kiss tasted too much like goodbye. I was certain that at any time in those few precious moments I might fall to my husband's feet and weep, as I had when that raven calling him away arrived, but perhaps I thought too little of myself. I stepped back as well, albeit woodenly, like a puppet missing an important string.

Robb turned away then, moving into the protective circle of his men, before I could say any of the words that had rushed onto my leaden tongue.

Forgive me.

Don't go.

I need you.

He walked out into the snow, his Kingsguard moving in perfect sync around him, his bannermen fanning out to their own men. I caught sight of Grey Wind moving out ahead of him, a silver shadow in the frosty light. I could hear movement, see dark shapes of men and horses moving about, but the only thing clear was Robb's solid frame as his cloak swirled in the snow and he took his helm from his squire. He mounted his horse in one smooth movement, wheeling it around and calling orders out—I could hear the deep, iron tones of his voice even though I could not make out the words over the whip of the wind.

He didn't look back.

* * *

_Dark wings, dark words_, my husband liked to say.

_Not always,_ I would disagree.

It had been over two weeks since Robb had left, and there had been no word until that day. It had been well into winter when he had left, but it seemed to me that without him the winter deepened, the cold closing in harder around us. Despite my rationalizations, my stern commands to myself, I spent all of that time abed, weeping and dreaming dark dreams. Gratefully, no one tried to make me do different. Lyla attended to me and made certain that I at least ate, and I was half-certain that Lady Catelyn came to check on me. I would be floating in that place between waking and oblivion when one of the shadows in the room would take shape. It would move forward carefully—not _creep_ exactly, it was too graceful for that—and reach out to me. But instead of icy claws it would be a warm hand that would brush over my forehead, lift the furs to my chin. It wouldn't be a sinister whisper that would float down to me, but a soothing murmur.

That morning, the shadow did not disappear with the light of day. She sat by my hearth, speaking with Lyla. I saw steam rising from behind one of the painted screens at the far end of the room—I gathered that I was supposed to bathe. I sat up, finding that my head was still too heavy for my shoulders. But as I made to lie back down my mother-in-law turned, fixing her bright gaze on me.

"Perhaps you'd like to do something different today, Your Grace," she said mildly. "Merrell says that there are some figures he'd like you to see and some expenses that want your approval."

It took several attempts before I could speak. My voice sounded crumbly to my own ears. "I'm certain Merrell will do ably without me."

"That may be, Your Grace, but your insight is humbly requested nonetheless. Maester Osmund also has something for you, if you have a moment today."

"Please, Lady Catelyn, I'm all right," I said wearily, pinching the bridge of my nose as the throbbing over my brow and at my temples worsened. "I'm just cold, is all."

"Well, Maester Osmund may have something for that as well, but I was referring to a few messages that arrived for you this morning. Ravens arrived today, Your Grace."

I suppose it was very amusing for Lady Catelyn and Lyla to see how quickly the fire returned to my blood when I heard that. I was wobbly, my muscles screaming at the sudden activity after so many days of stillness, but I was determined. Lady Catelyn agreed to retrieve the messages if I consented to eat and bathe, and the hot water—which was tepid by the time I soaked—helped my blood flow better.

Lyla was braiding my hair when Lady Catelyn returned. We were already discussing cutting it—it was too much of a bother to wash in the winter. Even though Lyla hurried I felt as though icicles had formed along my scalp by the time my handmaiden had finished brushing it dry.

There were two letters. One was from Alys, which I set aside to read later, when I was alone. The other was—

"Oh." I did my best to smile, despite the hollow feeling in my chest. I didn't want to tell them, particularly Lady Catelyn, but she was already looking concerned by my reaction. "It's from Jon."

I looked away before I could see what Lady Catelyn thought about that. I was happy to hear from Jon any day, of course, but I had hoped that Robb would find something to say to me. I certainly had things I wanted to say to him, but I would not say them until I was sure that he was willing to listen. He had been so adamant in our last conversation, so closed to whatever explanations I had tried to offer.

"I suppose I should read them," I said absently, to no one in particular.

"You should eat first," Lady Catelyn suggested. She did not seem displeased, but she became even more reserved, if that was possible. "Those letters aren't going anywhere."

Alys' letter was distressing. Our father had taken ill of late, his cough worsening. Our latest stepmother had been caught carrying on with one of the stable boys and had been locked in our dungeon. The stable boy had been banished, which I found kind of our father, until I read that it was at my husband's behest. The King in the North had ridden through the Twins just as the scandal rocked the keep, and my father had been content to leave the matter in his hands.

Ill though he was, my father still exerted some influence. He was sending a company south with the king—among them my sister, Kyra. She was to be a lady-in-waiting in King Tyrion's court, apparently—how anyone had managed to make _that_ happen, Alys had no clue. Everyone was glad to be rid of her. Since the gardens at the Twins had withered in the weather, she had spent her time making everyone inside miserable. Whether Robb was one of that number, Alys' letter didn't make clear.

I knew it wasn't Alys' intention to make me feel ill, but her gently mocking account of Kyra's obvious advances towards my husband made my stomach knot with unease.

_She made sure to sit as close to him as possible at every meal and offer him wine, bread, even when his plate was full. It was terrible of her, but Fara asked her loudly what else she meant to offer the king. Everyone laughed and Kyra stopped, at least at meal times. Then she started "coincidentally" being the one tasked with cleaning the king's chamber, fetching his bath water and so on. Father might have had her whipped, but he spent the entirety of the king's visit in his own room and I don't think anyone told him. Before they left Margaret predicted that Kyra might "coincidentally" find herself in the king's bedroll, but I predict that she might coincidentally find herself in bed with Grey Wind if she even attempts it. _

Gods forgive me, but I prayed that it would be so. I would have sworn once that nothing would ever make me turn against my family, but Robb _was_ my family now, and Kyra would cease to be if she did anything that changed that.

Jon's letter was lengthier, and it succeeded in making me feel better—and yet worse. The second page read—

_We could have crossed the river without rousing your father. The river's frozen now. Have you ever seen it frozen before? It reminded me of a frozen lake I saw beyond the Wall, but the river's more perilous. The ice is thick, but your father's soldiers assured me that the river still flows, fast and deep beneath it. Your father sent out an honor guard for us. Robb told me that some of them were your brothers, but they looked nothing like you. And yes, that was a compliment._

_ The gods blessed your father with a son like Robb. Those are your own kin's words, not mine, though I agree. I don't think any son would show such devotion to a father by marriage. The stop at the Twins was supposed to afford Robb rest, but he didn't get any. I suppose you'll be offended by that, but I don't mean to imply that your father is troublesome. It's simply that Robb spent most of the stay sorting out trouble at the keep. I'm no longer surprised that you're so efficient, this place is a madhouse._

_ Your people are pleasant enough though. Your sisters are very accommodating and your brothers are engaging. Robb says that such qualities are lost on me, since I do nothing but sit in the corner and brood, but I do appreciate it. I'm one bastard among many in Walder Frey's halls, but I'm treated better than I ever was being the only bastard in Winterfell._

_ Your father would have wanted us to stay longer, but Robb wouldn't hear of it. He's eager to reach Riverrun and have this business done with so that we can return home. At least he can return home to you. I can't say that I'm eager to return to the Wall, and I've never been south of Winterfell before. The gods made it so that my first opportunity to do so is in the middle of winter. _

_ One of your sisters is riding south with us. She annoys Robb, but he's civil to her. She'd like to make it appear that you and she are the closest of siblings, but I smell the lie. Grey Wind does as well. He nearly snapped her hand clean off when she tried to pet him yesterday. Greatjon japed that maybe Grey Wind misunderstood her intentions. She only wanted to stroke his meat for him. It's crude, but I thought you may find it amusing. That is, if Robb told you the story about how Lord Umber lost a few of his fingers. _

_ I'll write again when we reach Riverrun. I have a feeling much will happen on the road between here and there. I hope the ravens fly true, and that when we reach Riverrun there will be one from you._

The shadow of my husband's wrath hung over me, but there was no possible way the letter could be misconstrued. Jon spoke of almost nothing but Robb and my family. The tone was familiar, but his words rang like a brother's in my ears. So as soon as I had reviewed the expenses as Merrell had requested, I closed myself in the study and began to write. It wasn't an effort to compose a response, despite the lingering effects of my time abed.

I didn't notice time passing, the shadows changing, until one reached out and placed another candlestick on my desk.

"Lady Catelyn!" I gasped, jumping to my feet. Ink splattered over my hand, but thankfully didn't even blot onto the parchment. "Your pardon, I didn't notice you. I've been writing letters."

Lady Catelyn's smile was tight. "I'd noticed, Your Grace. The light in here wouldn't have been sufficient for that much longer. To your sister?"

"Yes," I said, lifting the letter to Alys. "Gods be good, I hope the raven will be able to bear it. I don't think I've written so much in a long time."

"It is a rare thing, that you keep correspondence even after your marriage. My sister Lysa and I promised one another we'd write to each other every day we were apart. She didn't keep her promise and I certainly didn't."

We shared a laugh, and I was cheered by the fact that Lady Catelyn's laughter could still come forth. But the cheer didn't last long. She spied the paper that was still laid out on the table, unfolded, the ink drying.

"To another sister?" she asked curiously.

The lie died on my tongue. And Lady Catelyn's smile faded.

"Some would find it odd that the Queen writes to her husband's brother rather than to the King himself," Lady Catelyn said coolly, and I found myself stiffening in defense. I had never really minded being chastised by her before—it rather warmed me to feel mothered, considering the age I had lost my own mother—but it seemed we would forever be at odds regarding my relationship with Jon. And I could not bring myself to distance myself from him the way she appeared to want me to.

"Some could simply be small-minded," I shot back with equal frostiness, "and fail to appreciate that I only write to him because _he_ has written to _me._ If the King wants words from me there is nothing stopping him from sending his own letter."

It was petty and uncalled for, and it revealed too much. But Lady Catelyn's reaction threw me, and to this day it is one of the reasons that I love her dearly. Rather than bristle in affront or cut me down—something that I expected and likely deserved, for queen or not she was still my elder and mother-in-law—her hostile expression softened.

"What did you and the King quarrel about, Your Grace?" she asked with gentle gravity that hit the mark more closely than any harsh words might have done. "Was it not this very thing that you and I are in disagreement over? Perhaps my son and I simply do not understand or are, as you say, 'small-minded', but I urge you to consider that when two people who care a great deal for you call your attention to something, perhaps it is likely that there is something there."

She then dipped into a bow and left me to my thoughts, which her words had sent into a riot. I sank slowly into my chair, staring at the half-finished letter I had written. It was already two sheaves long. Who wrote letters that long to one another?

Deep inside, I knew they were wrong about me and Jon. There was nothing there that they needed to concern themselves about—there were boundaries between us that neither of us would ever cross. He was a brother of the Night's Watch and had sworn oaths that I believed were more important to him than any girl would ever be. More importantly, he was brother to my husband, and from what little I had seen of them together I knew that that tie was one he would never risk breaking. He would no sooner pursue me than I would pursue the husband of one of my sisters—even if that sister were Kyra. For my part, Jon simply did not inspire the feelings that Robb stirred simply by looking at me. There was an affinity between us, certainly—an instant spark that had snapped to life between us faster than the fire I had built with my husband—but that comfortable, affable closeness was not love.

But did other people see that? Could they comprehend what was between me and him without us having to explain? Would they believe us even if we did? Robb certainly hadn't when I'd tried to explain to him. Had he ever been fortunate to have such a friendship with another person, that he might understand?

I started to crumple the letter, but the thought of Jon's face stopped me. I reached for the letter he had sent me, smiling at the tightly woven words, the precise strokes that managed to elude any semblance of grace. It was a man's penmanship. It was his manner of speaking, even through a letter. Coming to a decision, I stood and left for Lady Catelyn's chambers. She and Jon never spoke to one another, but I was overcome by the need to make her hear what he had to say, and I would make her endure it if I had to.

Understandably, Lady Catelyn was reluctant to read the letter. Yet she was far too courteous to refuse me outright when I asked her to do so.

"It was intended for your eyes, Your Grace," she pointed out. "I would not wish to intrude."

"I need for you to read this, please," I insisted. "Tell me that I should ignore this after you read it."

"Your Grace—"

"I could always read it to you," I offered, cutting her off though doing so made me ashamed. "Your ladyship, I'm not leaving until you read it."

She read it, but I had to endure a lecture before she did. As she went about lighting more candles and feeding the fire in her hearth, she told me about a boy she had grown up with, who had tragically loved her when she was already promised to another.

"He wrote me a letter, too, Your Grace. Of course, I burned it."

"You knew who it was from," I felt the need to say. "I didn't until I'd already opened it."

"Perhaps you should have read no further when you realized who it was from."

I bit down on a pointless retort. "Shall I read? I can see clear, even in this light."

She settled in front of me, looking martyred as she reached for the letter and unfolded it. She went over it carefully, taking her time—perhaps she could not see clear in the light after all. Yet it was uncommonly bright in her room that night, and I looked around, counting candles and wondering if it accounted for the warmth. Lady Catelyn's room had always been one of the warmest in the keep and my curiosity was piqued at how she managed to keep it warm, even in winter. Indeed, I had been told that even _before_ Winterfell had been rebuilt Lady Catelyn had occupied the warmest room. I occupied those chambers with Robb now, and they certainly weren't any definition of warm. I wiped away a bead of moisture that trickled down the side of my face. Lady Catelyn hadn't even broken a sweat. I was about to comment on this when she looked up, apparently done reading.

"And what am I to gather from this, Your Grace?" she asked quietly, folding Jon's letter neatly.

My vision stuttered, as it had once or twice in my entire life, when I was well and truly out of patience. I blinked rapidly, willing the world to keep still and my tone to remain respectful. If I could not make Lady Catelyn understand, it meant one of two things—neither of which I was willing to accept: I was truly in the wrong, or my skill at communication was truly horrendous.

"Does he write as a lover would?" I asked bluntly. "Tell me plainly, please, if you would suspect anything illicit from what you have read."

Lady Catelyn sighed. "There is nothing in here that one could twist into ugliness, Your Grace—save for the lack of formality in its tone and the fact of the letter itself. Corresponding with another man is not, as a rule, encouraged. This is but one letter—how long before feelings greater than the one this reflects develop?"

"Yes, my lady," I said carefully, praying to the Seven that her ears remained open, "but surely exception might be made for someone who is family?" I reached for her hand when her expression shuttered. "Not your family, if you don't want him, my lady, but Robb's for certain and hence, by extension, mine. He loves Robb and would never betray or dishonor him." And because it was Lady Cat I was speaking to, I gave voice to something that was admittedly speculation—but I believed it deep down, unflattering though it was to me: "Indeed, my lady, I suspect the only reason Jon wrote me was for Robb's sake, or for the sake of our marriage. All those months since we first met, he never wrote me once. This letter of his speaks mostly of my husband. It's Jon's way of meddling, trying to mend things between me and Robb, don't you see? I don't think Jon would have gone to the trouble of writing me if things between me and the king had not soured so."

It was a relief, speaking about the state of my marriage to someone. It was a breach of another unspoken social rule, of course, but I was beginning to learn that there was value and even satisfaction in breaking rules now and then.

Lady Catelyn did not speak, but her expression had softened somewhat, and I pressed my advantage, taking both her hands now and leaning forward, mind and body willing her to hear what I wanted to impart.

"I promise you, Lady Catelyn, whatever you have heard or whatever you suspect, I am faithful to your son," I said earnestly, almost fiercely. "My friendship with Jon is simply that—friendship. Knowing him is a way of knowing my husband. He helps me see how Robb was—_is._ I mean, I don't even understand the joke about stroking meat or what Lord Umber has to do with it."

Lady Catelyn laughed, the sound breaking the intensity of the moment. "That _was _a crude joke, but expect no less from Jon Umber."

She told me the story about how Lord Umber lost his fingers, and the mood lightened and remained light even when, a little later Lady Cat remarked that perhaps family was indeed the exception.

"I suppose you won't mind then," she went on, so blandly that for a moment I missed the teasing twinkle in her eye, "if your sisters wrote to Robb, as they are, by extension, his sisters."

I made to agree, then realized that of my sisters she was truly referring to Kyra.

"I'm certain there's an exception to that exception," I said crisply, and I cherished Lady Catelyn's ensuing laughter.

* * *

It had been an eventful day.

It was the only accurate conclusion I could make as I lay in bed that night. I could not say it was a "good" day—it had been trying for many of us, including myself. The light was dim, and for the benefit of my visitors I kept my eyes closed as much as possible, feigning sleep, though I was far from it.

It had happened so quickly, so abruptly that Lady Catelyn was still reeling. I could see it in her drawn features, hear it in the urgent tones of her whispers to Maester Osmund. They stood at the far end of the room, casting worried glances my way every so often.

We had spent at least an hour talking after she had finished reading the letter. I had explained why I only ever wrote to Alys—Fara and Margaret struggled with letters—and finally opened up to her about my relationship with Kyra. Lady Catelyn had confessed that she had initially found favor with my sister solely on her appearance, but then she declared that she could no longer remember what Kyra looked like. I didn't believe her, of course, but the gesture was appreciated.

I had excused myself only when the room became much too warm. It seemed to me that the temperature had been climbing and it was reaching the point past comfort. I had gotten to my feet—and the world had made one slow, sick spin.

I could not remember what happened after, but I could recall Lady Cat's cry of distress, hear the door slamming open and the clinking of armor as my guards rushed in. The world went dark, and when next my eyes could give shape to what was before them I was with Maester Osmund, who imparted news that would leave me altered, forever.

A child.

I slid my hands over my waist and lower, overcome with a sense of wonder. Could the Maester be wrong? It seemed impossible that a child was growing inside my flat belly. True, I had not bled in almost two moons, but I had been late before. I had started bleeding when I was twelve, but it was only when I was fifteen that my blood had begun to come regularly. I frowned, the thought of the Maester being wrong troubling. This surprised me, because I had never really looked forward to being a mother. I had spent many years helping with the care of what seemed to be innumerable brothers and sisters, so the thought of having children had been one I had regarded with dutiful resignation. But the thought of having Robb's child filled me with a delicious anticipation that made me want to skip and shout. I caught sight of the pair worrying in the corner of my room and decided the skipping and shouting would have to wait.

Would it be a boy? A girl? Would he or she favor one parent, or be a splendid mixture of both? I closed my eyes, trying to envision what Robb's features and mine would create if melded. I found myself giggling when I was unable to dream up anything remotely attractive.

"Is everything all right, Your Grace?" Maester Osmund was coming forward.

"Mmmm," I replied, stifling my laughter and turning to my side, shutting my eyes again and forcing my breathing to adapt the rhythm of sleep. The Maester's steps drew near, then retreated again. For a little while I was content to listen to the dull, indistinct sounds of conversation, my own mind humming.

What would Robb say? I knew he'd inevitably say something crude about how the babe was conceived, but would he be pleased? Of course, there was no conceivable reason why he wouldn't. He didn't seem like a particularly parental sort, but being the dutiful, pragmatic soul he was, he would at least be glad for the fact that I was carrying his heir.

In the winter.

Almost in the same breath as the joy, the fear rushed in and my eyes snapped open, my body tensing so suddenly my muscles sang with pain. Mothers smothered their babies in the winter, the stories told. It was preferable to letting the poor souls suffer. It had been a horrifying prospect when I had been a child, but now that I was carrying a child of my own I felt a feeling very near to rage build in my breast. The fierce emotion forced me to take a deep breath, and then another as I silently threatened fate with the direst of consequences if it had such a thing planned for me and my babe. I had never been a particularly fiery person, but the thought that anyone—myself included—might bring harm to my child stoked a fire in my heart that had never been lit before. I placed my hands over my belly again, closing my eyes and praying to the gods that somehow, someway they would make my child strong, and the Winter short.

* * *

**Author's Note #2:** …so, what do you think? I don't know where to put my feelings about this chapter, but I had to get it out there—you've waited too long already. On that note, a few words to everyone who has been so patient—

Lisa: Liiiiiisaaaaaaa! Haha, sorry, I just wanted to do that. I'm really sorry I made you wait so long. I understand your concern about the brothers' love triangle plot—I'm not comfortable with those either. I hope you liked this chapter all the same—it isn't exactly a love triangle. Please let me know what you think! There's a little Robb mushiness, as requested, but unfortunately both he and Morgan weren't very nice to one another in this one. I made this chapter extra-long so that there will be more to re-read until the next update.

Anya: I'm so sorry it took me forever! Thank you so much for leaving me so much feedback, I truly appreciate it! To tell you the truth, there have been so many times when I've wanted to just post this damn thing, except that it didn't seem to be the right part to end it. Actually, I'm still not sure if this was the best portion to cut this chapter. But I didn't want to drag this on, particularly after yesterday's episode of GoT. Kisses, dear!

SirenaErmosa: And here it is! So sorry, dear, I hope the wait was worth it. I have half a mind to post mini-chapters from now on, just so that you don't have to wait so long. I can't wait to hear what you have to say about this one, so please let me know.

Belinda: All I need is love, haha! And you've given me plenty, dear, thank you! I hope you liked the update. It's extra long for your re-reading pleasure.

browneyes: Gosh, I hope you _still_ like her after this one! And as to her feelings, I can neither confirm nor deny whether she's feeling love, haha. You'll have to see in the coming chapters. Thank you so much, and please bear with me! Misty: I'm so sorry, but the _Somebody I Used to Know_ bit had to be moved to the next chapter—don't kill me! Thank you, thank you for indulging this pairing! I hope you still like Morgan after this…I'm really worried about this chapter, haha. Elle: Yes, I have this theory that Robb's more Tully than Stark in his temper and nature, and that the Stark bit of him comes from upbringing. I really wanted to emphasize that your house isn't always definitive of who you are, so having a well-bred lady from Walder Frey's line was always an intriguing concept for me. Still, Morgan wasn't so well-behaved here, so I hope you still feel the way you do. Thank you! thewaywetalk: I hope you're still squealing, haha! Thank you so much! I'm really pleased that you like my fantasy! mrk010585: Well this update is longer! Though it did take a bit longer to get it out, haha. So sorry, and so grateful for your support! Anna: How I wish that I could! Who knows? If I do, I'll be sure to put a note in for you. Thank you so much! The characters expand a bit in this chapter—to the point that they may seem almost out of character, but I hope you still find it believable. And sexy, haha! Midnightsunshine11: Well, it was Robb who did the confronting in this one—Morgan will get her turn, I promise. Thank you dear!

I hope I didn't miss anyone, and EVERYONE, THANK YOU AGAIN!

_**Next Chapter:**__ Robb, Morgan, and Jon. And somebody he used to know. Sort of._


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